


It Happened In A Blink

by poetzproblem



Series: Don't Blink [37]
Category: Glee
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 90,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of various drabbles and ficlets set within the <i>Don't Blink</i> universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every Girl and Boy Needs A Little Joy

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Most of these were originally posted on tumblr but were never archived until now. They are included in posting order. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> The first ficlet is set directly before _Just Give Me A Little Bit More._
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

_Every girl and boy needs a little joy._  
_All you do is sit and stare._ _  
~Do You Wanna Touch Me, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts_

_xx_

 

Rachel never had the opportunity to be a true college girl in the sense that other college girls did. Social activities at NYADA usually consisted of backstabbing fellow students for a role—not that she ever personally did (very much of) that _—_ rather than just hanging out at a coffee shop and chatting about something as mundane as the weather with an eclectic mix of fellow students from all manner of scholastic interests. She’d always been just a little bit jealous of Quinn during those weekend visits to Yale because she’d been immersed in the quintessential—no pun intended—college experience. Rachel suspects that if she’d actually been close enough to Santana during their college years to bother to visit the sprawling blocks of the Upper West Side that housed the Columbia campus, she’d have been equally jealous of her college experience as well.

She finds it amusing that she’s actually been on campus to visit Santana more now that Santana is in med school and, therefore, actually on campus less. They’re getting along better these days—Rachel knows it’s less that Santana genuinely wants to spend the extra time with her and more that Rachel is Quinn’s girlfriend now and has become a somewhat tolerable substitute when Quinn’s not available. On their better days, she entertains the notion that maybe—just _maybe_ —Santana actually likes her for more reasons than just their shared affection for Quinn. In any case, Rachel will never turn down the offer of a free cup of coffee from the Joe Coffee in Morningside Heights, even if it means listening to Santana bitch and moan about her insane schedule, her fellow med students, and the intricacies of endless medical terms that Rachel is, frankly, leery to ask for clarification on. Mostly, she just hums and grunts encouragingly in what she deems are the appropriate places.

It’s Santana who actually turns their latest conversation toward the personal when she complains that, “I don’t even have the time or energy for a decent mattress tango anymore. How the fuck am I supposed to unwind? I needs a warm body under me or I get twitchy?”

Rachel rolls her eyes into her coffee cup as she takes another sip. “Not that I am in any way soliciting the details of your sexual antics, but I thought that you were currently engaging in one of your little, mutually beneficial non-relationships. Chloe, isn’t it?” she asks.  ”The psychology major?”

Santana shrugs. “I had to cut that one off short.”

“Don’t you cut them all off short?” Rachel wonders, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, but Chloe was too kinky, even for me. I like me some toys as much as the next lesbian. Give me a good strap-on and a woman who knows how to use it,” she murmurs, smiling fondly for a moment as her dark eyes taking on a distant look before she snaps back to the present with an exaggerated grimace. “But I draw the line at nipple clamps. Those little fuckers hurt like a bitch.”

Rachel’s lips part silently as she watches Santana take a sip of her coffee. Once again, it’s more information than she was looking for, and she shudders in sympathy at the thought of nipple clamps (because ouch!), but—well, she can’t help wondering—

“You…um…you’ve used a…a strap-on?”

Santana gives her a weird look, and then she starts to laugh. “Aw, are you and Q not past the baby-lesbian stage yet? Still getting your fingers wet?” she taunts, curling her own in a lewd motion.

Rachel reaches over and closes her hand around Santana’s, pushing it down as she glances around the coffee shop self-consciously. Santana only laughs harder. “Forget it,” Rachel mutters, feeling her face heat even more.

“Come on, Tiny. Man up,” she snickers at her own joke. “If you wanna play with the big-girl toys, just say so. Don’t let Quinn top you every time.”

“She doesn’t,” Rachel defends heatedly, regretting it the moment that she sees Santana flash a wolfish grin.

“You’re way too easy,” she teases wickedly. “I didn’t even have to get you drunk this time to get some details.”

Rachel ducks her head and stares down into her coffee cup. “Can we please talk about something else?” she begs, wondering why conversations with Santana always and inevitably circle back to sex. Still, Rachel can’t deny that the possibility of moving past the  _baby-lesbian stage_ —as Santana so crassly phrased it—with Quinn is certainly something worth thinking about. 


	2. If I'm A Fool For Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after _Getting Crazy By the Bottom Of the Bottle._ The first April 1st after their wedding.

_When I look into your eyes I see,_  
 _Everything I was meant to be._  
 _If I’m a fool for love,_  
 _I don’t care. I don’t care.  
_ _~Fool For Love, Belinda Carlisle_

  _xx_

It’s a gorgeous spring day—one of the first after a long, dreary winter—but instead of being outside enjoying the beautiful weather, Rachel has to settle for the breeze from the open window. She’s sprawled out on the sofa with a purring Oliver at her feet, perusing the new sheet music for the original show that she’s currently work-shopping. So far, the new song that Zachary is adamant about including just isn’t speaking to her at all.

“Rach, sweetie, do you have time to look over something for me?” Quinn asks as she glides into their living room. 

Rachel hums distractedly as she rests the pages on her chest and tips her head back against the armrest to gaze up at her wife with a soft smile. When she sees an entirely different set of white pages gently grasped in Quinn’s hand, she grins widely and scrambles into an upright position, letting the sheet music fall forgotten to the cushions as Oliver releases an annoyed mewl at the disturbance before letting his eyes drift shut once again.  

“Gimme,” Rachel demands, making grabby motions for the papers that Quinn is holding. 

Quinn chuckles and shakes her head, holding them just out of Rachel’s eager reach. “It’s just a rough draft,” she warns.

“I don’t care. You’ve been in there typing at ungodly hours for the last two weeks instead of snuggling with me, and I’m dying to know what amazing world you’re creating this time.”

Quinn’s second novel has been sitting pretty on the bestseller list for months now, and her agent is in talks with two studios that want the film rights.  Rachel is so incredibly proud of Quinn and so happy that the rest of the world is sitting up and taking notice of her talent.  They’re both incredibly blessed to be able to do the things that they love (and make money doing them). 

Quinn had taken a little break from outlining her next novel while she’d gone on her book tour, though she still hasn’t given up the part-time copy-editing job that supplements her income, and last month, they’d finally gotten to take their belated, extended honeymoon.  Not that Rachel hadn’t enjoyed the three, blissful days they’d spent soaking up the sun in the Hamptons right after their wedding—or more precisely, taking full advantage of the bed at the upscale house they'd rented—but she’d hated not being able to give Quinn a proper honeymoon at the time, thanks to her obligations with  _Funny Girl_.  The three weeks that they’d spent bouncing from London to Paris and across the beautiful coastline in between had more than made up for their first, rushed attempt. 

Now they’re both back to work, which means that Rachel is spending the long, boring days locked in a rehearsal hall while Quinn is practically attached to her laptop, and Rachel has yet to read any of what she’s been writing.  It’s driving her insane.

Quinn gazes down at her wife with barely concealed uncertainty as she nervously bites into her lower lip. “It’s a little bit different,” she cautions again.

“I like different,” Rachel insists, making another grab for the pages—her fingertips grazing the edge of the still-warm paper.

Quinn smiles crookedly, sighing as she hands them over. “Here you go.”

“Yay!” Rachel squeals excitedly, snatching them up and settling back on the sofa with her legs crossed beneath her as her eyes immediately move to the pages.

Quinn gingerly sits down beside her, displacing Oliver from his throne in the process. He grunts—Rachel has discovered that cats are apparently capable of doing that—and scurries out of the way until Quinn is settled before he plops himself down into her lap and demands to be petted.  

Despite Quinn’s warning, Rachel is expecting to read her wife’s familiar, vivid writing style and be dragged into whatever fantastical world that Quinn has chosen to bring to life this time. Her first two novels had been grounded in realism, but colored with touches of fantasy that had given them just a little something extra to keep the reader engaged. As Rachel reads through the first paragraph, she realizes that more than the style is familiar. She’s immediately introduced to a female protagonist named Lucille, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Quinn, and Rachel frowns a little.  She’d thought that Quinn had moved away from the semi-autobiographical character traits after her first novel, but she keeps on reading with an open mind. About two thousand words into the introspective scene, Rachel’s eyes snag on the name  _Rae_  as a second character enters the story, and her frown deepens as she recognizes too much of herself in the character. She’s not certain exactly how she feels about this development, but she trusts Quinn, and she’s never been disappointed with anything that she’s written in the past, so she keeps reading. A few hundred words later, the two characters are—oh, they’re doing  _that_.

Rachel softly clears her throat, glancing over at Quinn surreptitiously.

“Do you not like it?” Quinn asks worriedly, fingers idly playing with Oliver’s ear.

“Oh…oh, no,” Rachel assures her with a strained smile. “It’s just…when you said it was different, I wasn’t expecting…um,” she trails off.

Quinn’s lips quirk into a teasing grin. “It’s called a romance novel, Rach.”

“Well, of…of course it is,” she stutters. “Um…the…their names though?”

Quinn waves away her concern. “Oh, those are just tentative for now. Keep reading,” she encourages. “I want your honest opinion.”

Her honest opinion? What is she supposed to say to that?  _Well, baby, it’s extremely well written as always, but you appear to be writing lesbian smut loosely based on us. Are you sure you want to give this to your editor?_ Rachel merely smiles and turns her eyes back to the page, scanning down over the words until she finds the place where she left off—with Rae ghosting her hands over Lucille’s  _ass_ ets. And okay—it’s undeniably stimulating, but she honestly can’t believe that Quinn could even write this when she still occasionally has trouble talking about sex outside of their bedroom.  And really?  This scene feels vaguely familiar, like—well, it kind of reads like—wait!

“Lucy Quinn Fabray!” she growls as realization dawns on her. “How could you?” she demands, waving the pages around in agitation. “How could you turn our beautiful first time together into some cheap, pornographic fodder for your newest novel? This is…I can’t believe you,” she stammers, voice wavering as she clutches the pages to her chest. The memory of that perfect evening is still so fresh in Rachel’s mind, even after all these years—the love shining in Quinn’s eyes as she’d slowly stripped Rachel’s dress away and caressed every inch of her.  To read it on a page in Quinn’s manuscript— “It…it’s…”

“A really good April Fool’s Day joke,” Quinn finishes with a blossoming smile.

Rachel gapes at her in open-mouthed shock.  April Fool’s—?

Belatedly, she realizes that today is, in fact, the first of April. Her mouth snaps shut with a click of her teeth, and she glares at her wife. “You suck,” she hisses, whacking Quinn over the head with the pages and watching her dissolve into uncontrollable giggles, shaking Oliver from his revelry and irritating him enough to finally jump to the floor and stalk away. “You really suck,” she repeats, biting back her own laughter—because her ridiculous wife had actually written a good twenty pages just to play a practical joke on her. When Quinn commits to something, she really doesn’t half-ass it.  

“You should have seen your face,” Quinn tells breathlessly.

Rachel tosses the pages onto the floor in exaggerated disgust, though she’s feeling kind of tickled by the whole thing at this point. “I feel like sending those pages to Aileen and telling her it’s what you’re working on for your next book.”

Quinn chuckles again, closing the scant distance between them and kissing Rachel’s cheek. “She’ll really think I’ve gone crazy when she gets to the end of the chapter and realizes that Lucille has a cock.”

Rachel’s eyes widen and her head snaps to the side to stare at Quinn. “She what?”

“Ten inches,” Quinn confirms with a smirk. “Just in case you managed to make it through the first part without saying anything.”

Rachel’s eyebrows arch, and she can’t help glancing back down at the pages on the floor, curiosity peaked. “Well, that’s not very realistic,” she mumbles, trying to wrap her mind around the image with a slight frown.  
  
Quinn rolls her eyes. “That was kind of the point. I can’t believe you honestly thought I’d try to have  _that_  published,” she chastises, slipping an arm around Rachel’s waist and snuggling closer.

“Well, you do have a talent with… _that_ ,” Rachel teases, shifting around until she can melt into Quinn’s arms. “Maybe we can recreate the scene,” she purrs suggestively, brushing her lips across Quinn’s, “minus the ten inch cock, of course.”

Quinn grins against her lips. “Would you settle for the seven inch one in the little box in the bedroom?”

Rachel jerks her head back, eyeing Quinn skeptically.  The one she’s referring to is strapless, and Quinn never suggests using that one on her own.  “This isn’t another April Fool’s joke, is it?”

“Scouts honor,” Quinn promises, slipping her palm underneath Rachel’s shirt.

“You were never a scout,” Rachel reminds her.

Quinn catches Rachel’s lower lips between her own, teasing it enticingly with her tongue before she says, “Tonight, I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

Rachel moans softly before she drags Quinn’s mouth back to hers and into a sensual kiss. Their bodies slide down further on the sofa, and Rachel curves her palms over Quinn’s  _assets_. She makes a mental note to snatch those pages back up and finish reading Quinn’s smut—but much, much later, after she makes Quinn show her in exquisite detail how the scene ends. She may be a fool, but she’s wise enough to take advantage of her wife whenever she can. And oh, baby, she’s going to take advantage of her tonight. 


	3. To Cover Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble for Faberry Week: Hickeys. Set after _My Life Before Me Undone_.

_Don't need make up_  
_To cover up._  
_Being the way that you are is enough.  
~What Makes You Beautiful, One Direction_

_xx_

 

Laura knows before anyone.

She has an eye for detail and a career built on the art of covering things up. Eight times a week, she covers up the small, crescent scar on Rachel Berry's forehead that she'd gotten falling off a stage at the tender age of two, and she covers up the tiny gold star tattooed on her wrist that appeared after opening night. Laura had been pissed about the extra work, but a job is a job.

Laura knows when Michael Garcia pokes his head into Rachel's dressing room a week after opening night as she's applying the makeup for Maria's first scene and asks her if that hot blonde friend of hers is single.

Rachel's mouth turns down into a frown beneath the lipstick that Laura is carefully applying before she snaps, "You aren't her type," and Laura curses under her breath at the smear the movement causes on Rachel's lips.

"I'm everyone's type," he boasts.

"Not Quinn's," she insists.

"What? Is she gay or something?" he asks laughingly, and Rachel only glares until he gets the message, holds up his hands in surrender, and backs out of the room slowly.

Laura knows because she knows all about Quinn—every tedious detail of their high school rivalry, their triumphant path to friendship, the many outings they've shared since Quinn moved to New York, and all of the reasons why Rachel doesn't approve of the women that Quinn chooses to date.

Laura knows when Rachel chatters in her makeup chair for two days straight about some guy named Peter who's just come back from London and asked her out to dinner. She doesn't ask for details—she never needs to ask with Rachel—but she gets the story anyway, and when Rachel returns to her chair, uncharacteristically quiet after their date, Laura really doesn't need to ask why.

Laura knows when Rachel shows up one Friday with a secret smile, rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, and yet another thing for Laura to cover up. She brushes Rachel's hair to the side, assessing the deep purple bruises on her neck and collar bone with a critical eye and watches Rachel's cheeks turn even duskier.

"Sorry," she mumbles sheepishly.

Laura sighs and shakes her head, choosing the appropriate shade of cover-up to make Rachel's indiscretions disappear. "Just tell Quinn to be more careful in the future."

Rachel's eyes grow wide, and she chokes back a nervous laugh, but she doesn't deny it. She only nods before tipping her head to the side and giving Laura room to work her magic. By the time she's finished, no one will ever know the marks are there.

But Laura knows.


	4. Dreaming While I Drove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set after _Make It Harder To Be Near You_ and before _A Feline Casanova._ Somewhat expanded from the semi-drabble first posted on Tumblr.

_I was dreaming while I drove_  
 _the long straight road ahead._  
 _Could taste your sweet kisses,_  
 _your arms open wide._  
 _This fever for you is just_  
 _burning me up inside.  
_ _~I Drove All Night, Cyndi Lauper_

_xx_

"I miss you so much."

The five simple words, uttered so dejectedly with glistening, brown eyes staring dolefully back at her through the webcam, instantly have Quinn's throat tightening and a familiar heaviness weighing on her heart. Her own eyes sting in commiseration as she forces out a choked, "I miss you too," and manages to smile sadly at the screen. "But it won't be for much longer," she reminds Rachel hopefully.

Rachel doesn't look impressed. "I hate this," she grumbles, glancing away from the camera. "I just want to be home…with you," she whines.

Quinn swallows down the lump in her throat—she wants that too. Their apartment is too quiet without Rachel in it. She'd been spoiled by months of (mostly) blissful cohabitation, of sharing meals and sharing showers, of cuddling on the sofa and talking about their days, of falling asleep tangled up in one another and waking up the same way. Sleeping alone again sucks.

They'd argued for a week about Rachel taking this job—a six month contract as Eponine with the touring company of  _Les Miserables_. Rachel had been adamantly against leaving New York, despite her steady spiral into panic and depression after four months of booking nothing but a few voiceovers and jingles for local radio ads and singing eighties cover songs at someone's Bar Mitzvah, but Quinn had pleaded with her not to pass up a role that she'd always wanted just because it would require a little bit of travel and a temporary long-distance relationship. Rachel had eventually given in—she really couldn't bring herself to refuse the role. It was hard, but they were surviving the distance, and they've managed to see one another in person a few times when the show had been circling the Northeast. Quinn had seen Boston, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh (or parts of them from the airport to the hotel window) in just under a month, but her finances really couldn't sustain the life of a groupie long term, so they mostly made due with Skype dates. The long weeks that Rachel had spent on the west coast had been the worst, especially with the time difference.

Quinn can see how exhausted Rachel is, and she wants nothing more than to be there, holding her until the dark circles under her eyes disappear. "This is only temporary," she promises, pressing the tips of her fingers to the edge of the screen as if it will somehow make her closer to Rachel—able to magically touch her. She has every confidence that Rachel will come home to her in a few months and get another role in a Broadway-based production. She's too talented and too dedicated for any other outcome.

A soft buzz hums through the speakers of Quinn's laptop, and she watches her girlfriend glance down at her phone before she looks back up to the camera with a frown. "I have to go," she tells Quinn sadly.

Quinn nods in understanding. Rachel has an eight o'clock performance at the Fisher Theatre in Detroit—one of eighteen over a two week period—and she's still in her hotel room. The hotel that the company is staying at is only a three minute walk, but there's wardrobe and makeup to contend with, and even though it's not quite seven yet, Quinn knows that Rachel really needs to get going. "Break a leg," she offers. "You know, later on stage. Not while you're walking to the theatre."

Rachel chuckles a little. "I'll do my best. Although, I would be able to come home sooner," she pouts.

Quinn knows Rachel doesn't really mean that—she would never renege on a contract. "Do you want me to call you later?" Quinn asks. Rachel actually managed to wrangle her own room this time, so Quinn won't have to worry about any late night conversations (or other things) disturbing her roommate.

Rachel sighs raggedly. "As much I would love that, I'm kind of exhausted. I think I should try to get a decent night of sleep."

"Take care of yourself, sweetie," Quinn urges with a worried frown. "I love you."

"I love you too, baby," Rachel breathes with a tired smile. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Quinn echoes before Rachel disconnects and her screen goes black.

She closes her laptop—she's in no mood to write anything tonight—and decides to distract herself with a few repetitive household chores, turning on the radio as she begins to clean up the kitchen. The weekends are the worst for missing Rachel. At least during the week, Quinn has her job to distract her, and the long hours at work help keep her from thinking too much about her empty apartment. It feels even emptier tonight.

There isn't much to clean since she's only cooking for herself now, but she'd let the skillet sit too long while she'd talked to Rachel and it needs a little extra scrubbing now. Her movements gradually still when an old Cyndi Lauper song floats into her ears—she likes this version much better than the Celine Dion one that Rachel has in her library—and the lyrics paint images in her mind of driving to Rachel, creeping into her hotel room, and curling her body around her girlfriend.

She could do it.

Detroit isn't exactly in her backyard, but it's not on the other side of the world either.

Quinn drops the skillet into the sink and grabs a towel to dry her hands as she races back to her laptop. She pulls up Google maps and calculates the distance. Over six hundred miles and almost ten hours of travel time make her stomach sink for a moment, and she starts looking up flights instead, but there's only one that could possibly work, and aside from being ridiculously expensive, she doesn't think she could actually make it to the airport in time. But she knows the nearby Budget Rent-A-Car is open until eleven, and it's only a few blocks away.

There are a dozen reasons why she should close her laptop and laugh off her insane idea and only one reason not to, but that one is more than enough. Her heart is screaming so much louder than her head, so she looks up the number of the rental agency and calls them while she's rummaging in her closet for a small suitcase. Luckily, they have a Hyundai Elantra with a full tank of gas available that's a little cheaper than the plane tickets would have been, so Quinn tosses a handful of clothes into her bag, not particularly caring if they match, and grabs her necessary toiletries.

It takes her thirty minutes to get to the lot, sign the papers, and get behind the wheel of the car. She programs the address of the Hotel St. Regis into her navigation and presses her foot down on the accelerator. The hardest part is getting out of the city. After that, it's mostly interstate driving, and she's familiar enough with the first half of the journey across Pennsylvania and into Ohio. Even though she flies back to Lima—well, technically Columbus—more often that she drives, she'd made the trip by car twice after she'd moved to New York in order to transport the last of her important belongings from her mother's house to her new home in the city.

Still, it's a long, boring drive, especially through Pennsylvania, and she's somewhere in the middle of the state when her eyes begin to get heavy, so she turns up the radio and cracks open the window, despite the fact that it's late October and the temperature has taken a turn for colder. The sharp bite of the night air helps to keep her awake, as does the ever-growing anticipation of holding Rachel in her arms again.

The gas gauge begins to dip into the critical zone at around one-thirty, so she finally stops for a few minutes at an exit north of State College, and her legs and back file a joint protest with her brain when she tries to get out of the car. She's stiff and sore and seriously doubting her sanity, but she's halfway there by now, so there's really no turning back. After working out the kinks in her body and making a quick trip into the restroom, she fills her tank and gets back in the car, and in a few more hours, she's crossing into Ohio and mentally counting down the miles until she's in Michigan.

And really, she'll never understand her ex's fixation on that state, but those are musings for another time when her brain is functioning on more than hazy thoughts of Rachel.

She tops off her gas tank again in Toledo and leaves Ohio in her rearview mirror around five in the morning, pressing her foot down a little harder on the accelerator to make those last sixty miles disappear even faster. She gets lost one time when she makes a wrong turn after getting off I-75—fucking unreliable GPS—and ends up driving around downtown Detroit for twenty minutes before she finally finds the hotel, and it's almost six-thirty when she puts the car into park.

Quinn knows that she probably looks like death warmed over after being awake for twenty-four hours and driving all night, but she doesn't care. She can feel the adrenaline pumping through her body as she walks into the hotel because she knows that she's finally in the same building as Rachel, and it's been far too long since they've seen each other in person.

She smiles at the woman at the front desk and turns on all her charm as she attempts to talk her way into Rachel's room, but the woman isn't having it, insisting, "It's against hotel policy to release information on any guests."

"Look, I  _live_  with Rachel," Quinn growls. "I guarantee you that she'll want to see me."

The woman—Yvonne—is completely unmoved, calmly staring her down. "It's against the hotel's policy, ma'am," she repeats curtly. "If you're a friend of Ms. Berry, then I'm sure you have a way of contacting her yourself, and if she wants to see you, she'll come down to the lobby. Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

As much as Quinn would love to fly across the countertop and throttle the woman, she doesn't want to end up getting kicked out of the hotel after she'd traveled all night to get here, so she retreats to the lounge with a scowl, out of  _Yvonne's_  line of sight. She collapses into one of the chairs and tips her head back, closing her eyes for a moment before she reluctantly calls Rachel's cellphone. So much for stealthily creeping into her room and waking her up with a kiss.

A gruff and groggy, "'Lo," finally scratches over the line with an adorable lack of awareness, and Quinn feels simultaneously giddy at the sound of her voice and guilty for waking her up.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

"Quinn," Rachel breathes in happy confusion, and then, "Quinn?" with sudden alertness. "Why are you calling so early? What happened? Is something wrong?"

Quinn chuckles. "Nothing's wrong, Rach," she reassures her. She's about to tell Rachel that she's downstairs, but then she realizes that there's still a way to salvage at least a small part of her surprise, so she only says, "I just really miss waking up with you and wanted to hear your voice this morning."

"You could have heard my voice two hours from now," Rachel grumbles mildly.

Quinn smiles to herself, thinking about all those early mornings when Rachel had been up before the sun and working out—or tempting Quinn into a different kind of work out. But she also knows that Rachel just doesn't sleep as well without Quinn beside her these days. It's the same for Quinn.

"But you'd probably be up by then, and I want to imagine you in bed, with your hair all curly and spread out over the pillow and your body tangled up in the sheets…your pajama top riding up over your naked stomach and twisted under your breasts."

Quinn hears a muffled whimper hidden in Rachel's slow exhalation. "Is this one of  _those_  calls?" she asks breathlessly.

"Are you in bed?" Quinn prompts.

"Yes."

"Your flannel pajamas or the Yale t-shirt that you stole from me?"

There's a pause, and Quinn can almost hear the smile in Rachel's voice when she answers, "The t-shirt."

"How big is the bed?" Quinn wonders as she cradles the phone to her ear and casually traces her fingers over the fabric on her chair.

"It's a queen. Plenty of room for you, baby."

Quinn grins wickedly. She plans to be there in a matter of minutes. "What's your room number?"

There's another pause. "That's hardly a sexy question, Quinn," Rachel censures.

"I want to create the perfect setting in my mind so I can be there with you. The room you're in, the floor you're on, the view, the décor," Quinn explains huskily. "Bring me there with you," she urges, standing up from her chair and peering over to the front desk to see that Yvonne is distracted with another guest.

Rachel sighs raggedly. "I'm on the fourth floor. Room 437. There's a view of the parking lot," Rachel mutters irksomely, but Quinn is already sprinting to the elevator and pressing the call button. "You'd like the room though," Rachel continues unknowingly. "It's clean and modern and not too flowery. There's a desk by the window with the terrible view that's the perfect height for…things," she reveals suggestively as Quinn slips inside the elevator and punches the button for the fourth floor.

"Things like writing," Quinn teases while the elevator slowly takes her up.

Rachel huffs. "You are terribly out of practice at your phone sex."

Quinn laughs in delight, shaking her head. "So let's get back to the bed. Is it soft? Are the sheets smooth against your skin?"

"So soft and smooth, Quinn," Rachel murmurs. "But so cold without you here."

"I can keep you warm," Quinn promises, silently rejoicing when the elevator doors finally slide open, and she races down the hallway in search of Rachel's room. "I can't wait to crawl into that bed with you…slip my hands under your t-shirt and tangle our legs together. I'll press you down into that soft mattress and kiss you until you can't remember a time when we've ever been apart."

"Quinn," Rachel whimpers.

Room 437 comes into view, complete with a Privacy Please sign hanging on the doorknob, but Quinn ignores that and raises her hand to knock sharply against the door.

"Son of a," Rachel growls. "Why is everyone up so damn early today?"

"Sorry, sweetie," Quinn apologizes. "Do you need to get that?"

"No," Rachel quickly tells her. "Just keep talking to me, so I can pretend you're here too."

Quinn smiles, knocking again—more insistently this time—before she says, "Maybe you should see who it is first? It could be important."

Rachel grunts, and Quinn can hear the swish of fabric over the phone and an irritated, "Fine," and then there's a rattle from the other side of the door. "Just give me a second while I get rid of this," the door is jerked open to reveal a sleep-tousled, scowling Rachel with her hair sticking up in every direction and wearing nothing more than Quinn's favorite Yale t-shirt. "Idiot," Rachel squeaks as her phone slips out of her hand, and she stares at Quinn in shock.

"Morning, Rach," Quinn says again as she disconnects the call and tucks her own phone into the pocket of her jacket.

Rachel closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly as if she thinks she's dreaming before she opens them again. "Oh, my God!" she squeals, flinging herself at Quinn and pulling her into a breath-stealing kiss.

Quinn wraps her arms around Rachel's waist and melts into her, urging her back into the room as she deepens the kiss. God, she's really missed this—missed  _Rachel_ —so much. The door falls closed behind them with a bang, and Rachel wastes no time pressing Quinn back against it. "I can't believe you're really here," she mumbles between kisses.

"I had to see you," Quinn confesses, cupping her hands to the curve of Rachel's ass and dragging her closer.

Rachel lifts her head and gazes up at Quinn with sparking eyes and an adoring smile. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"It was a last minute decision," Quinn admits with a grin. "I rented a car and drove through the night."

Rachel's smile slips. "You drove six hundred miles by yourself with no sleep? Are you crazy?"

Probably.

Definitely.

"Crazy about you."

Rachel stares at her for a moment before she laughs and hugs Quinn close. "I am so completely in love with you, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn will never get tired of hearing that. "I love you too, Rachel. Now," she drawls with a devilish smirk, "I believe we were getting back to that bed."

Rachel hums in pleasure, pressing a kiss to Quinn's jaw. "You did promise to keep me warm."

Quinn slips one hand down between Rachel's legs, curling her fingers into the dampness there until she makes Rachel moan. "You feel pretty hot to me," she purrs.

Rachel's blunt nails drag against Quinn's hips as she presses forward, grinding into Quinn's hand. "This is so much better than phone sex," she gasps before pulling Quinn back into a sloppy kiss.

Quinn couldn't agree more, and with renewed energy, she guides Rachel to the bed, determined to make every single fantasy that she'd had during her long drive come true. And together—they turn all of those fantasies into memories that will last a lifetime.

Quinn is so very glad that she drove all night.


	5. Take A Cup Of Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A _Don't Blink_ side story. Set between _Dust On Every Page_ and _Every Hour Has Come To This._

_For auld lang syne, my dear,_  
_for auld lang syne,_  
_We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,_  
_for auld lang syne._  
_~Auld Lang Syne, Robert Burns_

_xx_

It’s after nine when Josie arrives at Kurt Hummel’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d stayed at her office later than she’d intended, elbow deep in research for a case, and by the time she got out, the city streets were already overflowing with throngs of people descending on Times Square and every other New Year’s Eve celebration going on in the city. She’d been a part of that insanity once, years ago when she’d still been in law school, coming down from Boston over winter break and letting Quinn drag her to Times Square along with Rachel, Kurt, and Santana Lopez. It had been Quinn’s first year living in New York, and they’d all frozen their asses off in the middle of a million people to watch the ball drop before getting drunk off their collective asses.

She doesn’t need to repeat that particular experience.

She could be attending the party that her brand new boss is hosting from his penthouse apartment uptown, but Josie has only been working at the firm for a few months, having just moved down from Boston, and, frankly, she doesn’t yet know any of her co-workers well enough to want to see them outside of business hours. So she’d been grateful for the invitation from Kurt—no doubt at Quinn’s prompting—to a low-key celebration at his place.

Josie is only a little surprised when Rachel Berry opens the door, wearing a brilliant smile and a black sweater featuring a large, knitted champagne bottle, tipping glass, and an array of colorful confetti. Josie would never wear it, but somehow on Rachel, it looks perfect—or maybe it’s just the skintight jeans and boots that she’s paired it with. “Josie, hi. Happy New Year,” Rachel greets, pulling her into a warm hug before pulling her inside the apartment. 

“Happy New Year,” Josie echoes back, presenting a bottle of Devaux. “Champagne for the host,” she offers, glancing into the surprisingly crowded apartment. This is Kurt’s idea of low-key? “Where  _is_ the host?”

Rachel laughs. “Oh, he’s in there somewhere,” she says, waving a dismissive hand before she accepts the bottle. “You really didn’t need to bring anything.”

“My mother taught me to never show up at someone’s house empty-handed,” she explains as she unbuttons her coat.

“She also taught you how to prepare the perfect cup of tea and cut the crust off of cucumber sandwiches,” Quinn points out with a grin, having slipped into the entryway to stand next to Rachel during their exchange, “but you drink coffee and eat crusty bread.”

“But I can host a killer Afternoon Tea if I want,” Josie fires back, shrugging out of her coat.

“I’m going to run this into the kitchen,” Rachel says, tapping the bottle with a fingernail. “Quinn, baby, toss her coat in the bedroom and then go find Kurt and tell him what a terrible host he is.”

“This is what you get for agreeing to help him throw this party,” Quinn chastises playfully. At Rachel’s exaggerated pout, Quinn rolls her eyes and quickly pecks her girlfriend’s lips. “Go.” Rachel grins and rushes into the apartment while Quinn holds out her hand to take Josie’s coat with a smile.

“I was expecting less people.”

Quinn shakes her head. “So were we, but Kurt invited a few of the people he’s been working with on his label, and his current boyfriend, Alan, invited a few of his friends, and Santana brought her friend with benefits, Janelle,” she says with another roll of her eyes, “and…well,” she hedges, shrugging, “Rachel and I invited Sarah so she wouldn’t have to be alone.”

Josie pauses at that revelation, gaping at Quinn. Of course, she’s heard all about Quinn’s ex-girlfriend moving to New York, and she knows that Quinn has spoken with Sarah a few times over the last few months, but she certainly didn’t think they were chummy enough for Quinn to bring her along on a New Year’s Eve date with Rachel. “You  _and_   _Rachel_ invited her?” she clarifies suspiciously.

Quinn laughs a little. “Well, Rachel wasn’t thrilled about it at first, but she’s pretty much a sucker for a poor, unfortunate soul.”

Josie frowns in confusion. “Since when is Sarah Cartwright a poor, unfortunate soul?”

“Oh, she isn’t, really,” Quinn acknowledges, “but she’s all alone in the big city, miles away from everyone she knows, with nowhere to go and no one to spend the holiday with,” she points out with a smirk. “I just had to pluck the right heartstrings.”

“And Rachel fell for that?”

Quinn blushes lightly. “I might have had to bribe her a little, too.”

“Must have been one hell of a bribe,” Josie teases, noticing the expression on Quinn’s face and comparing it to what a good mood Rachel seems to be in tonight.

“It served its purpose,” Quinn admits with an embarrassed smile.

Josie chuckles as she follows Quinn further into the apartment until Quinn briefly disappears down a narrow hallway to dispose of her coat. It’s a really nice place—spacious and modern, with clean lines, large windows, and a beautiful view of the city. There’s music playing just loud enough to be a pleasant background track to the conversation and laughter happening around her. A few people here look like they walked out of a magazine—models most probably—but the majority of them are casually dressed in jeans and sweaters, although no one else went the  _festive_  route that Rachel chose. That’s probably a good thing.

“Josie Deveraux! Hello, hello,” Kurt twitters, rushing over with a glass of wine to give her a kiss on her cheek. “Happy New Year, and welcome to my humble abode.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” she returns with a smile.

“There are hors d’oeuvres on the kitchen island and…well, scattered around the room, by now,” he informs her jovially, “and there are various wines and champagnes in the kitchen, so help yourself.”

“You  _are_ a terrible host,” Rachel scolds, coming up beside him with a wine glass in each hand, one of which she extends to Josie. “Cabernet Sauvignon, if I remember correctly.”

Josie nods, impressed. “You do. Thanks.”

She turns to Kurt with a haughty look. “And  _that’s_  how you do it,” she crows before taking a sip of the pale, pink liquid in her own glass.

“Excuse me,” Quinn cuts in with a frown. “Where’s mine?”

“I only have two hands, Quinn, and unlike Josie,  _you_  already know where to find everything.”

“Gee, thanks, sweetie,” she drawls, unimpressed, but Rachel only smiles and kisses her. When they part, Quinn runs her tongue across her lower lip with a thoughtful hum. “The Chardonnay would have been better,” she muses.

Rachel playfully pokes Quinn in the side before she’s snagged by the waist and pulled into the curve of Quinn’s body where she settles comfortably into her embrace.

Kurt rolls his eyes at them and reaches for Josie’s hand. “Come on. I’ll make some introductions so that I can no longer be accused of being a poor host.”

Josie chuckles and lets herself be led around the crowded room while Kurt recites a list of names that she knows she’ll never remember tonight. They pass by Santana, who used the occasion to dress up in the tightest, little red dress that Josie has ever seen her wear. She has a glass of wine in one hand and the ass of a pretty, short-haired, African-American woman in the other.

Santana grins a little drunkenly when she sees her. “Wha’ S’nu, Pussycat?”

Josie lets the familiar greeting slide by without comment and shakes her head in amusement. “Who gave you the night off?”

Santana snorts, letting go of the woman next to her. “The one and only perk of still being a med student. No one wants to babysit us tonight. This is Janelle, by the way,” she gestures before turning to her companion. “Janelle, Josie. Quinn’s hot friend from college.”

Janelle huffs in mild exasperation but smiles politely at Josie and extends her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Josie returns, with an equally polite smile, shaking the woman’s hand.

“Oh, speaking of college friends,” Kurt interrupts, still at Josie’s side despite his obvious distraction with observing all of his other guests, “I believe you have another one over there.” His voice holds a noticeable air of coolness as he points to the far corner of the room.

Josie follows his line of sight, unsurprised to see Sarah standing close to the wall, seemingly involved in a conversation with an attractive guy that Josie hasn’t yet been introduced to. She supposes that she understands Kurt’s lack of enthusiasm—he’s Rachel’s best friend first and foremost—but even though she has her doubts about how successful this whole attempt by Quinn to befriend her ex-girlfriend will be, Josie had always liked Sarah back in their college days. Maybe she hadn’t been the most spontaneous person in the world, but she’d been smart, sweet, and cute in that shy, slightly nerdy way that Josie found kind of endearing.

She’s still cute, though her current posture suggests that she isn’t all that comfortable—whether it’s the party in general or her present company specifically, Josie can’t be certain. “I believe you’re right,” she agrees distractedly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Josie juggles her wine as she navigates around bodies and furniture. The closer she gets to Sarah and the guy, the more clearly the conversation comes into focus, and Josie realizes that it’s not so much a conversation as the guy talking at Sarah about his job as a paramedic. Oh—no—wait—his job  _playing_  a paramedic on some television show.

“I was only supposed to be a background character in one episode when they hired me, but they liked my looks so much that they kept me around. I’ll practically be a regular next season,” he boasts. “You should really watch it. It’s a great show.”

“I don’t really watch much television,” Sarah mutters with a strained smile.

“Oh, come on, honey. Everybody watches television. It’s the national pastime.”

“Actually, that would be baseball,” Josie interrupts with a smirk, suppressing a laugh when they both turn to her with matching expressions of surprise. The guy (who actually does look a little familiar now that Josie can really get a good look at him) goes from annoyed to interested in the blink of an eye, but Sarah is nothing but relieved to see a familiar face. Josie has always considered herself to be pretty adept at reading body language, and even without the inappropriate “honey,” she’d bet a year of her salary that actor guy has been attempting to chat up a very uninterested Sarah.

Grinning wickedly, Josie slides an arm around Sarah’s waist, momentarily ignoring the way her body stiffens under the unexpected touch. “Josie, what…?”

“Here’s your wine, Sarah,  _honey_ ,” she purrs, cutting off Sarah’s objection and offering her glass to the woman. “I’m sorry I left you alone for so long.” Josie turns to actor guy with a grateful smile. “Thanks for keeping her company while I was gone. I’m Josie, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but,” she trails off meaningfully, glancing back at Sarah, who finally seems to shake off her bewilderment as she clumsily reaches for the wine glass in Josie’s hand. Josie smiles gratefully and extends her now free hand to actor guy.

She has the pleasure of watching him gape at them in confusion for a moment before he recovers and takes Josie’s hand. “Nick Paul,” he mumbles.

Josie shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you,” she lies smoothly. “So, did I hear you say that you’re an actor?” she questions dumbly. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

He looks slightly affronted, and she braces herself to listen to his resume. She’s fairly certain that he hasn’t been in anything significant, but she thinks she might have seen him on some crime drama as the drug dealer du jour. “You know what,” he finally says, holding up his hands in silent defeat, “you probably wouldn’t have. It’s been nice to meet you both. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you,” she replies cheerfully, waiting until after he walks away to release her hold on Sarah’s waist. She doesn’t really dwell on just how comfortably Sarah had fit into her side.

Turning to Sarah with a smile, Josie reaches out and snags her glass back, lifting to her lips to take a sip before she casually asks, “So, how have you been? It’s been what? Almost five years?”

Sarah flushes pink and shoves her hands into the pockets of her black jeans. “That…you…I,” she stammers before she puffs out a frustrated breath and glances away. “Why did you do that?” she finally manages to ask in a coherent manner.

“Well, you looked like you were either praying for the building to collapse or trying to figure out if you could survive throwing yourself out the window,” Josie explains teasingly. “But if I was wrong and you were enjoying that conversation, then I’m sorry,” she apologizes sincerely. “It probably was an unnecessarily rude way to interrupt,” she admits with a shrug.

Sarah nods. “Rude…but apparently effective. And it was the window,” she confesses self-consciously, digging her hands deeper into her pockets. “I’d never want the building to collapse.”

Josie laughs. “That would certainly put a damper on the party.” Plus, Sarah’s livelihood is tied to erecting buildings, not destroying them. “Although, you don’t seem like you’re having much fun,” she notes conversationally before taking another sip of her wine.

Sarah shrugs, dropping her eyes as she mumbles, “Parties aren’t really my forte. And I don’t really know many people here.”

“Did Quinn and Rachel just abandon you to your own devices?” Josie asks with a frown, giving the room a cursory glance and spotting the couple, side-by-side, talking to one of Kurt’s friends.

“No,” Sarah denies quickly. “They…well, Quinn meant well, I think,” she defends weakly, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “To be fair, I…I guess I’m not really in the mood to watch them together for an extended period of time.”

Josie can feel her eyebrows inch up as she breathes out a quiet, “Oh.” The idea that Sarah might still be carrying a torch for Quinn bothers her, for a multitude of reasons—a few of which she’s not in the mood to analyze right now.

Sarah’s eyes widen. “Not that I’m…there’s nothing…I’m over Quinn,” she insists clumsily, dragging her hands out of her pockets and crossing her right arm beneath her breasts to nervously rub at her left arm. “It’s just…awkward.”

Josie also isn’t in the mood to analyze why she feels quite so relieved at that confession. She smiles sympathetically. “I know awkward. My ex hired my mother to plan his wedding in August,” she shares, quirking her lips in bitter amusement.

Sarah visibly cringes. “Ouch.”

“I know.” She’d dated Keith while she’d still been in law school, and they’d had an amicable breakup almost three years ago, so she’s been over him for a while, but that doesn’t stop her from wishing that her mother had told him to take his business elsewhere. She supposes that’s what she gets for having dated someone whose parents and hers have been friends for a good twenty years.

“So how have you been?” Josie asks again with genuine interest, leaning against the wall. “Quinn said you’re working at Skidmore, Owings & Merrill on Wall Street.”

“Oh…um…yeah,” Sarah stutters, seemingly caught off guard that Josie knows that. She fidgets a little with her hands before returning them to her pockets. “That’s…the job is great, actually. It’s a lot of hard work, but I’m learning so much. Um…what about you? Last I knew, you were back in…Boston, right?”

“I was. I actually just moved in November. A friend of mine from law school gave me a line on a job here, and it just felt like a good move, you know.”

Sarah frowns. “Not really.”

Josie shrugs a single shoulder. “Well, it’s good for me right now. I have a few friends that ended up living in the area, and Megan isn’t very far away in Allentown. If I feel the urge to visit my parents, Boston is just a four hour drive away.”

Sarah nods at that—her expression growing wistful. “Must be nice to be so close to them.”

“Sometimes  _yes_ , sometimes  _no_ ,” Josie says on a laugh. She’d gone back to Boston to be closer to her family, mostly because she’d wanted to spend more time with her late grandmother before she’d passed, but it didn’t take long for her to remember that it  _is_  possible to be too close to your family. She thinks a little distance will be better for everyone.

Sarah smiles slightly and shifts her weight. Her eyes dart around the room in that unfocused way that happens when someone is looking for something to say and hoping to find it flashing in some magical dialogue box in the sky. Josie wonders if she’s making Sarah especially nervous, or if it’s just the effect of her being in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. Josie has never had a problem feeling comfortable in these kinds of situations, but she understands that not everyone is like her.

“So,” Sarah begins, drawing out the word a little too long as she forces her gaze back to Josie, “do you just transfer your law license from state to state?”

Josie chuckles and shakes her head—she wishes it was that easy. “No. I sat for the New York bar at the same time that I sat for Massachusetts. Luckily, I passed them both; otherwise I would have had to take the exam again to practice law here.” There are some waivers to that requirement, depending on the state, but most of them demand more years of experience as a practicing lawyer than Josie currently has.

“Wow,” Sarah murmurs with admiration glittering in her eyes. “That’s kind of impressive.”

“Or crazy,” Josie laughingly corrects. Studying for two bars had been extremely stressful, but it really had been better in the long run to give herself an extra option from the very beginning. “What about you? How does the whole architectural license thing work? I mean, you’re working here now, but…well, according to Quinn, Michigan is still the final destination.”

“It is,” Sarah confirms without hesitation. “For a small fee,” she explains with a caustic grin, “I’ll be able to apply for reciprocal registration once I meet all the requirements. So right now, I’m just focused on working toward my license.”

Josie hums thoughtfully. “What exactly does that entail?”

“I…are you really interested,” Sarah asks uncertainly, “or are you just making polite small talk?”

“I thought we just finished the polite small talk,” Josie responds with a grin. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested,” she assures her.

Sarah’s cheeks grow pink again. “Oh…um…okay. Just…tell me if I start to bore you,” she cautions.

“I spend my days buried up to my elbows in law books,” Josie points out. “Trust me. You won’t bore me,” she promises.

And she isn’t lying. Once Sarah starts to talk about her job and the project that she’s currently working on, it’s like watching a flower bloom under the sun. Her posture opens up, her hands come out of her pockets, and her eyes stay focused on Josie, sparkling with passion. Josie finds herself thinking that Sarah isn’t just cute—she’s absolutely lovely. That long muted buzz of attraction that she’d ignored back in college for obvious reasons suddenly starts coming in loud and clear.

The conversation flows easily once Sarah relaxes, and it even weathers an interruption by Quinn and Rachel when they come over to check on them. Josie snags two glasses of wine, and then she snags two prime seats on the low-set window seal while they talk politics, and before she knows it, the room is counting down to midnight. Sarah is smiling freely as she counts along, and when the moment arrives and the room erupts into loud cheers and a chorus of  _Happy New Years_ , Josie gives into her instincts and leans over to softly brush her lips across Sarah’s in a brief, chaste kiss.

Sarah inhales sharply just as Josie pulls back with a crooked grin. “Happy New Year,” she murmurs, barely audible beneath the impromptu rendition of  _Auld Lang Syne._ Josie can hear Rachel’s voice ring out clear as a bell above everyone else.

“Um…y-yeah,” Sarah whispers with a pretty blush. “Wh-what was that?”

“It’s tradition,” Josie answers lightly, despite the heaviness in the air between them. “The person you kiss at midnight is supposed to indicate the tone for the year to come, and so far it’s been a pretty good night with great company and even better conversation. I figured we could both do with more of the same,” she offers with a hopeful smile. “And having another friend in this city certainly can’t hurt.”

Sarah’s cheeks darken, and she bites back a shy grin as she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear. “I…I think I’d like that.”

Josie’s smile widens. She suddenly has the unshakable feeling that it’s going to be a really good year.


	6. Give Me A Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set between _A Feline Casanova_ and _Dust On Every Page._

_So slide over here_   
_and give me a moment._   
_Your needs are so raw._   
_I've got to let you know._   
_~Need You Tonight, INXS_

_xx_

Rachel doesn't mind it so much in the morning. She has to get to the theater before the matinee after all, and while she certainly would prefer having an actual conversation with her girlfriend over the vegan French toast that she'd finally learned how to make correctly—well, she does still need to learn how to get those first few pieces off the skillet before they burn—she finds watching Quinn juggle eager bites of her breakfast between typing one-handedly on her laptop to be impossibly adorable. And Rachel does manage to get Quinn to look up from her screen long enough to receive her  _have-a-great-show kiss_. (They aren't goodbye kisses because they never really say goodbye—only  _see you later, baby.)_

Rachel doesn't typically come home between performances on her two show days. Their apartment is close enough to make it possible, but it's rarely sensible. Sometimes she runs a few errands or browses in some nearby shops, and other times she just crashes in her dressing room and tries to catch a nap. Today she opts for the nap, knowing that being insensible would also be unproductive for her and for Quinn because Quinn is on a particularly creative streak with her novel. She doesn't always have the time or energy to work on it during the week, and Rachel wants to give Quinn the whole afternoon and evening to write without interruption.

After another outstanding performance (of course), Rachel eagerly makes her way home. It's Saturday night, and she absolutely loves that her show is dark on Sunday. It means they get an entire day together, just the two of them, with nowhere else to be. It also means that they occasionally get to turn their Saturday night into a Sunday morning without regard for sleep. She's been thinking about doing just that all day, but when she opens the door, she finds the apartment dark, save for the light seeping out from the bedroom they share.

Smiling, she kicks off her shoes and pads over to the not-quite-closed door—no doubt left that way to allow Oliver to come and go as he pleases without yowling—and peeks inside. She finds Quinn in exactly the position that she expects (and nowhere near the position that she'd been hoping for), hunched over her laptop with her back against the headboard and glasses perched on her nose as she alternately types and pauses to reread the screen before her fingers start moving again.

Rachel touches the door until it opens completely and leans her hip into the frame, thinking that the slight squeak of the hinges and the noticeable change in the lighting will pull Quinn's attention to her, but it doesn't. Frowning, she clears her throat, only to see Quinn's eyes remain focused intently on her screen and her right hand pause from its work to raise slightly, index finger pointing up in silent request for one more minute before returning to the keyboard. Huffing in annoyance, Rachel straightens and stalks over to the foot of the bed, glaring at her girlfriend.

"Quinn," she grunts, crossing her arms.

"One more minute, Rach," is muttered directly to the laptop.

Rachel's eyes narrow. She never wants to impede on Quinn's passion, but she'd given her  _all day_  to do this. It's after eleven-thirty and Rachel is home now—it's time for Quinn's  _mistress_  to go to sleep for the night. "Unless you've recently named your computer Rach, the flesh-and-blood one in the room would appreciate if you actually met her eyes while you're talking to her."

Quinn's gaze lifts for just a second, eyebrow arching under the frame of her glasses. "Just give me five minutes to finish this scene," and then she's back to typing.

Rachel growls under her breath. First it was one minute, now it's up to five. Soon it will be the rest of the night that Quinn is clickity-clacking away at her keyboard. Rachel isn't exaggerating—Quinn has done this before. Taking a calming breath, Rachel lets her arms fall to her sides and turns on her heel, pacing out of the room and toward the bathroom to undertake her nightly ritual. That should give Quinn ample time to finish her scene.

Oliver circles her feet on the way down the hall, mewling determinedly to gain her attention. "I know. She's ignoring you too," Rachel sympathizes, bending down to scratch behind his ears. He bumps his head against her fingers and then races in the direction of the kitchen, pausing to stare at her expectantly. She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You just want your snack."

She slips into the kitchen and fills his bowl with just enough food to tide him over, taking the time to clean and refill his water bowl with fresh water. Then she heads to the bathroom to go about her own nightly business, scrubbing off her lingering makeup, rinsing, and moisturizing before returning to the bedroom. She wishes that she could say she's surprised to see Quinn is still typing, but she really isn't.

She could (should) be a good girlfriend, slip her pajamas on, quietly crawl into bed, and resign herself to sleeping on her own, cold, lonely side while Quinn spends the night banging her keyboard instead of her girlfriend. (It's possible that Rachel might be hanging out with Santana a little too often.) She could do that—but she won't. She's already spent far too many nights deferring to Quinn's art, and she's about hit her limit.

Grinning impishly, Rachel closes the bedroom door before she pulls her shirt up over her head, tossing it in Quinn's general direction. Well—actually, she throws it straight at Quinn's head, but her aim hasn't improved since she was a child, so it lands harmlessly somewhere around Quinn's feet. The clickity-clacking doesn't stop. Rachel saunters back into Quinn's line of sight (if she were actually looking up) and unzips her slacks, slowly shimmying them down over hips. More clickity-clacking, but Rachel's almost certain that she heard a short pause somewhere in there.

She reaches behind her back and unsnaps her bra, letting it slide down to the floor. The clickity- clack becomes a stuttered clickity-click-click before Quinn inhales sharply through her nose and slams the backspace key multiple times.

Rachel's grin turns to a smirk as she places her palms flat against the mattress at the foot of the bed and crawls up onto it like a cat, practically rubbing against Quinn on her way up to the headboard. The clickity-clacking is growing noticeably slower. Rachel plops onto her side facing Quinn, who is biting into her lower lip with eyes darting in Rachel's direction every few seconds as she struggles to keep typing. Rachel tugs at the sheet and makes a show of lifting her legs up to her chest one at a time before sliding them underneath, taking care to graze her toes along Quinn's calf as she straightens them again.

Quinn puffs out a breath and shakes her head. "I'm almost finished," she promises, almost desperately.

Rachel leans closer to Quinn, resting her cheek against Quinn's shoulder and watching the words appear on the screen. There are dozens of red underlines in the last several paragraphs and more appearing with every stroke of the keys, and Rachel stifles a giggle at the multiple typos. "How much longer, do you think?" she asks huskily.

"Three minutes," Quinn mumbles.

"A lot can happen in three minutes," Rachel muses, pulling away from Quinn and sliding onto her back as she slips her hands under the sheet, dragging it down to her waist, before her fingers venture under the elastic of her panties. She's still deciding between (im)patiently teasing Quinn some more or just starting without her entirely when Quinn slams the cover of the laptop closed.

"Fuck it," she groans, slipping the offending object onto the nightstand and ripping her glasses off. "I can't concentrate with you lying there doing that."

Rachel smiles triumphantly. "That was kind of the plan."

Quinn shakes her head, even as she moves over Rachel's body, ghosting those precise fingers over her naked breasts. "At this rate, I'll never finish my novel," she grumbles good-naturedly.

"You will," Rachel assures her, reaching up to slip her arms around Quinn. "Just not tonight. At least, not until you finish me first," she teases wickedly.

Quinn's lips curve into a sexy smirk as they descend. "Oh, sweetheart, I haven't even gotten started." She slides her hand over Rachel's body and kisses her passionately. The laptop is completely forgotten as Quinn writes a poem of pleasure across her skin instead. Rachel doesn't mind it at all.


	7. She Was Pure Like Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set after _Lifelong Long Letter_ and the _If I'm A Fool For Love_ ficlet and before _Forget the Wrong That I've Done._

_She was pure like snowflakes_  
_No one could ever stain_  
_The memory of my angel_  
_Could never cause me pain._  
_~Centerfold, J. Geils Band_

_xx_

She doesn't Google Rachel's name very often anymore. Reading some of the things that so-called fans say about her wife tends to enrage her more than it makes her smile. It was boredom and a severe case of writer's block that had led her idle hands to type  _Rachel Berry Fabray_  into the search bar this afternoon. She'd started with what had appeared to be a relatively harmless link to a celebrity gossip board but had turned out to be a lesbian chatroom with an entire thread about Rachel's relationship with her.

She'd been shocked and a little horrified to see just how many photos of them had somehow made their way onto the internet. There had even been a picture of them with Santana followed by some cringe-worthy jokes about threesomes. (An epic argument had followed that because apparently she and Rachel had fans who insisted that they would never, ever do anything like that because they're soulmates and fated and were apparently virgins when they married.) They obviously wouldn't ever have a threesome, but that's beside the point.

Quinn really should have known better than to click on the link that she'd found on that board, but morbid curiosity had blindly guided her fingers over the mouse. What she'd found on the other end of that link had her clicking back out as fast as possible.

She'd been horrified, and embarrassed, and then just pissed, so of course she'd gone back to the site where she'd found the story to send a complaint and a request to take it down, only to realize that there are about six hundred stories featuring Rachel archived there—and not all of them have Quinn as her willing bed-partner. There are stories about Rachel with her various costars, male and female—sometimes both at once—and a few with celebrities that Rachel has never even met! Quinn is sick just thinking about it, and for the life of her, she doesn't know why she keeps opening links to read them. She thinks it must be the same twisted, fascination that makes people stop to gawk at accidents and murder scenes.

And that's how Rachel finds her when she comes home from the theater, hunched over her laptop in muted horror. "Quinn, baby, are you okay?" Rachel asks in concern, resting her hands on Quinn's tense shoulders.

"No," Quinn mutters, still staring at the screen. "I could have gone a lifetime without knowing what watersports are."

"Watersports?" Rachel echoes in confusion. "You mean like swimming and water polo."

Quinn laughs a little deliriously. "No. Nothing like those at all."

Rachel leans over her shoulder, squinting at the screen. "Are you doing research for your novel?"

"I wish. The chapter I wrote you as a joke isn't even as bad as some of this," Quinn grumbles, gesturing to the screen.

Rachel's brows furrow as she reaches around Quinn and moves the screen so she can read without the glare from the light. After several silent minutes, she gasps, "Oh, my God! I would never! And Pauline is straight anyway. If I would have hooked up with any costar during  _West Side Story_  it would have been Jessica."

Quinn turns her head and glares at her wife. "Excuse me?"

"Well, Jessica is gay. And, let's face it, she isn't exactly picky."

"That's so not the point," Quinn snaps. "People are writing tons of this…this drivel about you."

Rachel's eyebrows lift in undisguised curiosity. "Tons? There's more."

"Rachel!"

"Is it all about me and Pauline? Or Maria and Anita, rather?" she questions eagerly, tapping the mouse to browse the site.

"I can't believe you," Quinn says in exasperation. "Do you not care that people who have never met you are writing about you having weird, kinky sex with people we actually know?"

Rachel frowns. "Well, when you put it like that," she concedes, her frown deepening. "That is kind of unsettling."

"Tell me about it. The ones about us are the worst."

"There are stories about us?" Rachel asks, surprised. "Like  _you and me_  us?"

"That's generally what  _us_  means," Quinn comments wryly.

Rachel's jaw clenches and her lips thin as she glares at the screen. "I don't want people sexualizing you for their own amusement and putting it out into the public domain," she grits out.

Quinn doesn't know whether to be touched or irritated that her wife is more defensive about this fanfiction stuff when it's focused on Quinn when she doesn't seem to mind so much on her own behalf. "And now you know how I feel."

"I'm going to write a strongly worded email to this awful site and demand they take these down. I'll call the ACLU if I have to!" Rachel insists, grabbing the laptop away from Quinn and clicking through to the contact us link.

"My hero," Quinn quips on a chuckle, feeling strangely calmer about the whole thing now.

Rachel darts her eyes in Quinn's direction as she begins to type. "Just out of curiosity, exactly how many of these did you read?"

Quinn feels her cheeks heat. "A few," she admits, downplaying the actual number.

Rachel's lips quirk into a sly grin. "Did you happen to pick up any interesting ideas along the way?"

Quinn clears her throat and ducks her head. "I'll tell you about them later," she murmurs.

Rachel's laughter rings out over the sound of her typing, and Quinn rolls her eyes, dropping her chin into her palm as she watches her wife defend their honor. She's never Googling Rachel's name again.

Okay, she probably will, but she's sure as hell not clicking on any unknown links. She doesn't need to read about some fantasy version of Rachel—she's got the real thing.


	8. You Make Me Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set between _Under Every Scar_ and _Just Give Me A Little Bit More_. Slightly expanded from the original drabble but still more teasing than pleasing.

_You make me feel like a candy apple,_  
_red and horny._  
_You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde_  
_in a centerfold, the girl next door._  
_~Feelin' Love, Paula Cole_

_xx_

Rachel lets herself into Quinn's apartment with the key that Quinn had given her. It's been a long day, and they'd had a minor snafu with the third set change during the evening's performance, and she's so ready to leave this day behind her. Imperfect shows always put Rachel in a funk, and she really just wants to crawl into bed and cuddle up to her girlfriend. The apartment is dark and quiet, and Rachel kicks off her shoes and sheds her jacket before she pads to the bedroom and cracks open the door, peeking into the pitch blackness of the room.

She tiptoes inside, careful to be quiet because Quinn is obviously asleep, and twists her hands into the hem of her shirt, ready to tug it up over her head when two arms unexpectedly wrap around her from behind, pinning her hands down against her sides. Rachel jumps in surprise, letting an embarrassing squeak slip past her lips as her heart stutters and trips from the unexpected burst of adrenaline. "Quinn?" she gasps, hoping it's her girlfriend and not some serial killer lying in wait to murder up-and-coming Broadway starlets. The body pressed against her back certainly  _feels_  like her girlfriend.

"Shh," Quinn coos against her ear, making her shiver. "Come here," she murmurs, gently spinning Rachel around.

Relieved that it is, in fact, Quinn who's holding her, Rachel gladly complies, slipping her arms around Quinn's waist and melting into her as she eagerly seeks out her mouth for a very welcome kiss. But Quinn's lips only ghost over hers with the softest caress, curving into a smile before she pulls away. Rachel huffs in muted annoyance at being deprived of Quinn's talented mouth, but Quinn is already urging her back until her legs bump against the chest at the foot of her bed. "Sit," Quinn orders, giving Rachel's shoulders a gentle push.

Rachel frowns, but does as Quinn requests and sits. The room is still dark, but Rachel's eyes have adjusted just enough for her to see Quinn's form in the shadows.

"Stay," Quinn commands.

"What am I? A dog?" Rachel questions, only half-jokingly.

Quinn laughs lightly and steps around her, walking to the nightstand beside the bed. Rachel cranes her neck around in an attempt follow Quinn's movements, but suddenly, the room is filled with a smooth, sexy beat, and Rachel's breath catches even before Quinn snaps on the lamp and turns, revealing her body clothed the short skirt and fitted jacket of one of her business suits, paired with black, fishnet stockings and high heels.

"Quinn," she rasps, pressing her hands down into the hard wood beneath her to keep herself from tipping forward and sliding off the chest in shock.

"Patience," Quinn warns with a sexy smirk, swaying her hips in time with music as she dances around the bed, just out of Rachel's eager grasp. She clicks on a second lamp on the dresser, bathing the room in a soft glow before she returns to stand in front of Rachel. "You did say that this was one of your fantasies," she reminds her as she closes her fingers around the bottom button of her jacket and slips it free.

Rachel whimpers softly, her eyes hopelessly glued to Quinn's every, sensual movement. Long, skilled fingers move certainly up over the material, popping buttons one by one, until the jacket falls open. Quinn slowly lets it slide off her shoulders, playing hide-and-seek with the skin beneath while Paula Cole sings about feeling the Amazon running between her thighs. Rachel completely sympathizes, feeling exactly the same way as she watches Quinn finally— _finally!_ —allow the jacket to slide all the way down her arms, catching it on her fingertips.

Quinn smirks knowingly as she tosses it to the floor, moving her hands on a slow path over the toned, pale skin on display beneath the lacy, black bra that accentuates her breasts to perfection. Then she spins around to give Rachel an eye-level view of her ass encased in that sinful skirt—hips still swaying in slow, voluptuous movements. Quinn turns her head and glances back over her shoulder, watching Rachel's face as she sinks down into a low dip in time with the music before rising back up and reaching around for the zipper of the skirt.

"Oh, my God," Rachel whispers, barely believing that this is really happening, even when the skirt loosens and Quinn shimmies it down over her hips, revealing the tiniest pair of panties that Rachel has ever seen her girlfriend wear and—Holy Barbra!—a garter belt holding up those stockings.

Quinn turns around again, dancing closer to Rachel. "Like what you see?" she asks coyly.

Rachel's hands come up to Quinn's hips, feeling them sway back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm.

"You are so sexy," she murmurs in awe.

Quinn straddles Rachel's waist, sinking down and dragging her own hands over Rachel's very awake and eager body. "And all yours tonight," Quinn husks, leaning down to nip Rachel's lips.

Rachel moans, gripping Quinn's hips more tightly and trying to deepen the kiss, but Quinn laughs and evades her attempt, slipping back off of her lap to a groan of disappointment. But then she's dancing for Rachel again, moving her body in the most erotic way, and Rachel decides that maybe it really is all about the teasing—though she's sure they'll get to the pleasing before the night is through.

They'd better get to the pleasing, because there's no way Rachel is going to be able to sleep after this without finding some kind of release. The song that Quinn had chosen to accompany her striptease is only exacerbating Rachel's state of arousal—she makes a mental note to ask Quinn where she found it because Rachel is definitely going to want to hear this one again so she can come back to this moment over and over and over.

Quinn reaches behind her back to pop open the strap of her bra with one talented hand before she lets the straps slide down her arms and carelessly tosses it away. Rachel's mouth goes dry, and then she's left nearly breathless when Quinn gracefully spins around and sinks down onto her lap, curling her hands around Rachel's thighs to brace herself as she rolls her hips back. Rachel whimpers, biting her lip as she wraps her arms around Quinn from behind and glides her palms over Quinn's smooth skin until she's cupping her breasts—fingers brushing against hard nipples. "I can't believe this is happening," Rachel breathes out loud this time and presses her lips against Quinn's shoulder.

Quinn chuckles again, low and throaty, before she quietly sings, "You make me feel love, love, love," along with the music.

Rachel shudders—the husky tones of Quinn's voice vibrating through her body and settling heavily into every one of her pulse-points. She drags one hand away from Quinn's breast, down over her stomach until she can slip it between Quinn's thighs, making Quinn stutter over the words to the song.

Quinn encircles Rachel's wrist and gently guides it away from her body, slipping out of her eager grasp only to turn around and straddled Rachel's lap again, leaning down to capture her mouth in a heated kiss. Rachel groans in pleasure and molds her palms to the curve of Quinn's ass, pulling her as close as she can while Quinn continues to rock her hips in time with the music. Rachel barely even hears it anymore, too consumed with the feel and taste of Quinn spilling over her. Her fingers catch on the elastic of Quinn's garters, and she scrapes her nails against the clasps, attempting to pop them open.

Quinn eases her lips from Rachel's mouth away ever so slightly. "You're not being patient," she chastises gruffly, closing one hand over Rachel's.

Rachel determinedly frees one clasp despite Quinn's effort to stop her. "You're not currently naked with my head between your legs, so I think I'm displaying considerable restraint," Rachel argues breathlessly.

Quinn's eyelids flutter. "Fuck," she hisses, her head tipping back and her hips jerking erratically.

"Yes, please," Rachel begs, dipping her own head to suckle the tempting skin of Quinn's elegant neck.

Anymore teasing and she just might spontaneously combust right here under Quinn's very talented body—and while that's not necessarily a bad thing, Rachel really wants to enjoy some mutual pleasing before Quinn completely reduces her to a quivering mess. Thankfully, Quinn seems to be on the same page, twisting her own fingers into the hem of Rachel's shirt and dragging it up. Rachel only leans back far enough to let Quinn pull the material over her head before her mouth is back on her girlfriend's body.

"You're not wearing a bra again," Quinn murmurs as she lightly scrapes her nails over Rachel's back.

"One less thing for you to take off," Rachel mumbles against her skin.

A sultry laugh tickles against her ear. "But I enjoy stripping you as much as I enjoy stripping  _for_  you."

Rachel shudders again, closing her eyes in silent praise of the goddess on her lap before she pulls Quinn close and kisses her senseless. She's definitely feeling love—and so many other really amazing things—and she plans to spend the rest of the night making sure that Quinn feels exactly the same way.


	9. I'll Pick A Star From the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble set after _Forget the Wrong That I've Done._

_And you, you'll be blessed._  
 _You'll have the best._  
 _I promise you that_  
 _I'll pick a star from the sky.  
_ _~Blessed, Elton John_

_xx_

It takes three weeks for Rachel to buy the book. Quinn doesn't rush her because she knows that her wife still finds it difficult to reconcile the relationship that she now has with Shelby to the one that she'd once wanted so desperately. The quilt that Shelby had given them has been sitting neatly folded on a shelf—far away from curious paws—since the day they'd brought it home. The books that Rachel  _has_  purchased over the last six months have been steadily stacking up on shelves, coffee tables, night stands, and even—much to Quinn's amusement and mild horror—on the tank of the toilet in their bathroom. She's determined to read every word in order to help them (her) create the perfect pre and post natal experience for their baby.

Quinn mostly thinks it's adorable—except when she doesn't. Her hormones aren't being much kinder to her with this pregnancy than they had been when she was sixteen, and Rachel has a tendency to be more than a little anxious over every minor mood-swing, but Quinn hasn't managed to scare her away yet, and she knows that she won't. Rachel is completely, one-hundred percent in this with her, and Quinn loves her all the more for it—especially when her equally unpredictable libido kicks in. Rachel has been very, very good about that.

So when Rachel comes home with a bag from the local craft store and shows Quinn the  _Joy of Quilting_  book that she's purchased along with several potential patterns—two with kittens that look vaguely like Oliver, another with five music notes seamlessly formed into a star, one of Alice in her familiar blue dress, and yet another of a gardenia surrounded by green leaves—Quinn's damned emotions go haywire, and she finds herself sobbing as she clutches the book and the patterns to her chest. She can so clearly envision their baby daughter—the one that Quinn will get to keep and hold and raise together with Rachel—happily lying across the quilt that will forever be a part of their family now.

Rachel shifts closer, holding her gently. "Do you hate them?"

Quinn shakes her head and gazes tearfully at her wife. "I love them. They're perfect."

Rachel smiles a little shyly. "Well, we can't use them all. I'm not even sure that we'll be able to successfully complete one of them."

Quinn wipes at those blasted tears before she hazards another look at the patterns. Thankfully, her emotional rollercoaster seems to have come into the station for a little while. She loves the  _Alice In Wonderland_  pattern—it was one of her favorite childhood stories, and now it always makes her think of that perfect first kiss that she and Rachel had shared on a warm, summer day—and the musical star is just so very Rachel. But she keeps coming back to the gardenia, thinking of high school and secret love and their wedding day. She can already imagine it set just off center in a light green square and blending perfectly into the green and white quilt.

"This one," she murmurs with a soft smile, tracing her fingers over the pattern.

"Are you sure?" Rachel asks uncertainly.

"Yes," Quinn confirms with a confident nod. She's certain that she can get it just right. She feels their baby gently kick her from inside, and she grins, dragging Rachel's hand to her belly. "Our daughter agrees."

"Well, we certainly can't argue with that," Rachel concedes with sparkling eyes, pressing her palm flat and chasing the movement under Quinn's taut skin. The besotted smile on her lips never fails to make Quinn's heart feel like it's too big for her chest, and another wave of happy tears prickles behind her eyes.

Chuckling wetly, Quinn lets go of Rachel's hand, not surprised at all when it stays firmly pressed against her ever-expanding baby bump, and opens the book to begin paging through it. She has a little more than two months to figure out how to add a patch to that quilt, and she's damned well going to do it perfectly. Their little girl deserves nothing less.


	10. Hungry For the Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set after _Dust On Every Page_ and before _Every Hour Has Come To This._

_Hungry for the meeting,_   
_the dinner we'll be eating,_   
_wine that we'll be drinking,_   
_and kinky thoughts I'm thinking._   
_~Happy Meal, The Cardigans_

_xx_

The recipe seems easy enough—penne pasta with herbs, tomatoes, and peas. Rachel thinks that she can manage it without incident. She's finally gotten the hang of cooking the pasta to the desired consistency after several frustrating attempts that had her either turning the entire pot into a big pile of mush or forcing her girlfriend to swear that she preferred her noodles extremely al dente in between every crunchy bite. She just needs to make certain that she keeps checking them diligently instead of allowing her attention wander to the countless other distractions that usually precede all of her major kitchen disasters.

She's made sure that there are no distractions.

Oliver is napping in the guest bedroom.

Quinn is at work, running herself ragged as she tries to keep up with her job responsibilities at the same time that she's working with her own editor and agent to get her first book to print. She'd officially gotten the agent late last year, not long after she'd finished her manuscript, although she'd pretty much had Devon sold with the early chapters that she'd shown him while she was still finishing her final draft. Selling the book to an editor had happened quickly after that. It helped that Quinn has made so many contacts in the publishing business through her job, and it certainly didn't hurt that her finished product had been pristinely edited. That's kind of her thing, after all.

Quinn isn't quite ready to quit her day job and start writing full-time, but she is beginning to talk more and more about the possibility of resigning as an editor and doing freelance copyediting instead. She already has the references and the good reputation. Meanwhile, Rachel is currently between shows— _again!_ —but Evelyn has gotten her some voiceover work to tide her over while she waits to see if the rumored revival of  _Funny Girl_  is actually a go this time. Evelyn has strict orders to get her an audition as soon as the production gets the green-light.

But for now, Rachel has nothing to pull her concentration away from the task at hand. She'd printed out the recipe this morning, and after poking around the kitchen cabinets to see what ingredients she already had versus the ones she needs, she'd gone to the market, list in hand, to buy the necessary supplies to make a perfect meal for Quinn. She'd also picked up a nice bottle of Chardonnay on the way home to pair with their dinner. Now all she has to do is get everything cooked and ready to be eaten by the time Quinn gets home.

Rachel scrapes her hair back into a ponytail before she takes a deep breath and dives in to the food preparation. She starts with the salad because—well, it's a salad. She's an expert at tossing those together. Then she puts a pot of water on the burner and brings it to a boil while she rummages around for a skillet. To her distress, Quinn has about seven of them in varying sizes, and Rachel frowns as she studies the different colors and textures. Hmm, well—the recipe calls for a non-stick skillet, so Rachel runs the pads of her fingers over two of the largest ones, but neither of them really feels less sticky than the other. She ultimately opts for the smoother of the two, laying it on the countertop as she checks on the water. Seeing that it's come to a boil, she dumps the penne in, jumping back with a squeak when the water splashes out and causes the flame beneath the pot to hiss.

"Okay…okay. Just slow down and take your time," she reminds herself.

Squinting at the recipe, Rachel begins to measure out the ingredients, stopping to check on the penne—still not cooked—before she slices the garlic cloves and tomatoes. Once she has enough to fill the recipe, she unwraps the fresh block of parmesan cheese and slowly drags it over the grater, careful to keep her fingers away. She doubts that Quinn would appreciate Rachel using her blood as a zesty pasta spice any more than Rachel would appreciate ending up in the emergency room to get stitches for an injury by kitchen utensil.

She pauses to check the penne again, noting that they're almost done, but still slightly al dente, so she adds in the cup of green peas to the water just like the recipe calls for and sets the timer for two minutes. She decides not to push her luck by multitasking anything else before the pasta and peas are done, so she leans against the counter and waits out the two minutes while she rereads the rest of the recipe three times.

Once she removes the pasta from the heat and drains the water—she'll totally clean up that puddle on the floor in a minute—she puts the bowl aside and turns her attention to the skillet, placing it over the heat and adding in the olive oil to coat it. Then she adds the garlic cloves and sets the timer for four minutes, stirring occasionally as the garlic turns brown.

Then it turns black.

Rachel frowns, reading over the recipe again with the spatula suspended over the skillet and noticing that it says four minutes  _or_  until brown. "Damn it," she mutters, glancing back at the stove, only to see the smoke pouring off the skillet. "Oh!" she squeals, quickly pulling it off the stovetop and racing to the sink where she drops it and waves away the smoke, trying to survey the damage. The garlic is a blackened mess, sticking to the bottom and sides of the skillet, and Rachel braces her hands on the sink and bows her head dejectedly.

"Son-of-a-bitch."

How hard is it to brown some freaking garlic?

Sighing, Rachel attempts to dump the mess out of the skillet so that she can start over—she'd been proactive enough to buy extra ingredients just in case. Unfortunately, the skillet doesn't quite come clean, so she runs it under the faucet and begins to scrub at it with the spatula, and when that doesn't work, a cleaning sponge. The black scorch marks don't lesson, and with a sinking stomach, she realizes that the skillet is ruined. She takes a trembling breath and stares at the damnable skillet for a full minute while she debates what to do.

"I'll just buy her a new one," she reasons with a stubborn nod, turning the skillet face down on the towel next to the sink. Or maybe she'll just throw it away later. Quinn has six more of them—she'll never even notice.

"I can do this," she insists with a determined frown, pulling out the other large skillet and placing it on the stove. She adds the oil and swirls it around. Then she carefully slices the remaining garlic cloves before adding them to the skillet and watching them like a hawk. The moment they turn brown, Rachel tosses in the tomatoes and slowly turns up the heat. Everything seems to be sizzling but not scorching, so she decides to add in the pasta and peas, watching the entire thing cook as she methodically stirs it.

A quick glance at the clock shows her that she has about twenty minutes before Quinn is due home, so she turns off the heat and puts an oversized lid over the concoction to keep it warmish. She can easily reheat it and add in the parmesan after Quinn arrives. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Rachel grabs some plates, silverware, and two wine glasses and quickly sets the table before she rushes back to the stove and obsessively checks under the lid to make sure nothing is suddenly burning. Satisfied, she cracks open a few windows to air out the scent of scorched garlic and disposes of the ruined skillet before she cleans up the bulk of the mess that she made in the kitchen.

With a little time to spare, she retreats to the bedroom and puts on a fresh shirt before brushing out her hair, and when she hears Quinn's key in the lock, she skips out to see her exhausted girlfriend dropping her coat and her briefcase in the entryway. "Hi, baby!" Rachel greets enthusiastically, moving to intercept Quinn so that she can brush a kiss over her lips.

"Mmm. Hi," Quinn murmurs, smiling tiredly before her brows furrow. "Is the heat on the fritz again? It's freezing in here," she complains.

"Oh, I forgot that I left some windows open," Rachel apologizes, rushing over to close them again.

"It's the middle of winter," Quinn points out with a frown.

"I know, but it was hot in the kitchen with the stove on," she explains with a grin. Okay—so that isn't exactly the reason they were open, but Quinn doesn't need to know that.

Quinn pauses, staring suspiciously at Rachel. "Why was the stove on?" she asks warily before she visibly sniffs the air. "What's that smell?"

Rachel frowns, taking a few panicked sniffs of her own and worrying that the rancid scent of her snafu is still lingering in the air, but all she smells is—well, "Dinner," she supplies, smiling again. "I cooked for you."

Quinn takes a stunned step back. "You cooked? An actual meal?"

Rachel's smile droops. "You don't have to sound so surprised. I'm getting better at it."

Quinn's gaze drifts to the table, and a slow smile spreads over her lips. "You really cooked dinner for me?" she asks softly, reaching for Rachel, who gladly steps into her arms.

"Penne with herbs, tomatoes, and peas," Rachel proudly tells her as she wraps her arms around Quinn's waist. "So why don't you go change into something more comfortable while I open the wine and get the salad out of the refrigerator. You don't have to do anything tonight but relax and enjoy the food."

"Sounds like heaven after the day I've had," Quinn admits, dipping her head to catch Rachel's lips in a grateful kiss. "I don't even care if you set anything on fire."

Rachel huffs and slaps her ass. "I didn't." There were no flames, after all. Only smoke.

Quinn laughs, breaking away from her girlfriend and heading for the bedroom with her fingers already busily unbuttoning her blazer. Rachel sighs and walks back into the kitchen, setting out the salad and dressing before she opens the wine and pours them both a glass. Returning to the stove, she lifts the lid from the pasta—thank God it still looks and smells okay—and turns the burner back on low heat.

Quinn, having changed into comfortable track pants and a sweatshirt, pads into the kitchen while Rachel sprinkles the parmesan cheese over the pasta. She slides her hands around Rachel's waist from behind as she watches her stir the mixture. "Oh, wow," she breathes, dropping her chin onto Rachel's shoulder. "That looks delicious."

Rachel beams with pride, leaning back into Quinn's body. "I told you I was getting better at this cooking thing."

Quinn hums in agreement, slipping a hand under Rachel's shirt. "And you look really sexy doing it," she purrs into Rachel's ear before placing a kiss to the skin beneath.

Rachel flushes with pleasure, almost melting into Quinn as her head tips to the side, but then she straightens, shaking off Quinn's far too tempting touch. "Oh, no you don't, Quinn Fabray," she chastises, turning around with a playful glare. "I worked very hard on this meal. There will be no seducing me until we've actually eaten it."

Quinn laughs joyfully and pecks Rachel's lips. "So let's eat. I'm starving," she admits with a sexy grin. "And after dinner, you can show me what's for dessert," she murmurs suggestively.

Rachel shivers in anticipation. She already knows that dessert is going to be far more delicious than the pasta.


	11. Dazzled By Her Beauty and Her Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set after _Where Your Book Begins_ and before _Just A Little Bit Caught._ A Sarah/Quinn side story featuring Rachel.

_From the 27th floor above the midtown roar_   
_you were dazzled by her beauty and her crime._   
_~New York Is A Woman, Suzanne Vega_

_xx_

Sarah has never been to New York City. She's only ever seen it in photographs or the occasional film and on every New Year's Eve when she gathers around the television with her parents and her brother and watches the ball drop in Times Square. Every single time, she thinks it's the last place that she'd ever want to be—trapped in a crowd of strangers in the dead of winter and the dark of night, never mind that the dark is filled with tacky neon signs and marquee lights. Most of the films never make it seem any better either, with the crime and the drugs and the thugs. Only her mother's annual viewing of _A Miracle On 34th Street_ had ever made the city seem the tiniest bit romantic. That—and the way Quinn talks about it.

She glances over at her girlfriend with a fond smile, watching the sunlight from the train window play on her face as the miles of scenery fly by outside. Sarah still loses her breath just a little bit every time she looks at Quinn and remembers that they're together—that Sarah gets to hold her hand and kiss her whenever she likes. She reaches across the seat and tucks her hand into Quinn's, feeling warm all over when Quinn entwines their fingers and flashes her a loving smile. The last six weeks have felt like a dream at times, but today, everything is becoming just a little bit more real.

Quinn has been asking Sarah to come to New York with her and meet her friends—well, her high school friends. She's from a small town in Ohio, but somehow, three of those friends had ended up in New York and close enough to visit. Sarah isn't that lucky. All of her friends are still in Michigan.

Sarah hasn't met any of the New York friends yet, though she's heard about all of them. Rachel Berry was even in New Haven last month to visit Quinn, but Sarah and Quinn weren't officially together yet, having only been out on a handful of dates in the two weeks since they'd first met over a Stanford White frame in the Yale art gallery. It had still felt too soon at the time to intrude on one of Quinn's weekend visits.

She's still thinking that might be the case. She's nervous to meet these people, especially when she already knows that she won't have much in common with them apart from Quinn and growing up in the Midwest. Well, maybe Sarah might have something to talk about with Santana Lopez—she's pre-med, so she must have a practical head on her shoulders. Sarah is hoping that they'll be as nice as Quinn's friends in New Haven seem to be. Her roommate, Megan, is sweet, if a little too bubbly at times, and Sarah likes Josie, even if she does think that the woman's Anthropology major seems a little wishy-washy, but at least they have some common interests to talk about. She doesn't really think she will with Rachel Berry or Kurt Hummel.

"We'll be there in about ten more minutes," Quinn points out softly.

Sarah smiles wanly. "Can't wait," she mutters.

Quinn chuckles and squeezes her hand. "You promised to give the city a chance. I really think you'll like it once you're there," she says, leaning closer and dropping her free hand over their joined ones to rub lightly at Sarah's wrist. Goosebumps break out under her touch. "I can't wait to show you the Washington Square Arch in person," she husks.

"I am looking forward to that," Sarah admits with a genuine smile. "And St. Patrick's Cathedral."

"And Grand Central Terminal is pretty impressive too," Quinn adds. "Beautiful. Like you," she murmurs, causing Sarah to blush before Quinn leans in and brushes a soft kiss over her lips. They're on a public train, so Sarah doesn't deepen it, even though she wants to.

Quinn gazes happily at her when they part, and Sarah draws a breath. She falls a little more for Quinn every single day. "Do…do you think your friends will like me?" she asks hesitantly.

Quinn's smile widens. "They're going to love you," she promises easily. "How could they not?"

Sarah nods, feeling a little better at her reassurance, but she's really not any less nervous. They're all supposed to meet for dinner tonight, and Sarah thinks that she can manage to get through that without too much pain. At least she'll have food to distract her if the conversation falls flat. But first, she has to meet Rachel, who'd insisted on greeting them at the station.

When the train rattles to a stop, Sarah stands and grabs their bags off the luggage rack, shouldering her own and keeping Quinn's in her hand, despite Quinn's protest. "I can carry my own bag."

Sarah grins at her. "I know. I'm trying to be gallant."

Quinn shakes her head with an indulgent smile, and Sarah lets her lead the way off the train. And wow—there are so many people! Sarah is already feeling overwhelmed, and they're not even off the platform yet.

Quinn slips her hand inside of Sarah's free one, keeping a firm grip on her as she leads them through the crowd and into the terminal. Sarah can't help admiring the design of the building as they walk, so when Quinn stops abruptly and releases her hand, she's momentarily disoriented. Her attention is pulled to Quinn's back as her girlfriend is wrapped up in an effusive hug by a short brunette.

"Quinn! I've missed you so much."

Quinn laughs into the woman's hair. "It's only been two weeks, Rach."

"Two weeks too long," Rachel argues, letting go of Quinn with a wide smile. "I still think you should transfer to NYU or Columbia."

"Not happening," Quinn refuses with a smirk, easing the sudden knot that had formed in Sarah's stomach at the suggestion.

Rachel's dark eyes finally tear themselves away from Quinn and land on Sarah. Her eyebrows lift slightly, and her smile dims for just a moment before it comes back even wider but somehow less sincere—Sarah's not quite sure how that's even possible. "Hello. You must be Sasha," she chirps animatedly. "Quinn has told me so much about you."

"It's _Sarah_ ," Sarah corrects her with a small frown. Quinn couldn't have told her _that_ much about Sarah if Rachel can't even get her name right.

Rachel's smile droops again, and she waves her hand dismissively. "Sarah. Of course. How could I get that wrong?" she wonders with a laugh. "In any case, it's so nice to finally meet you. I'm Rachel Berry." She holds out a hand politely for Sarah to take, and when she does, she's met with a firm, swift handshake.

"Nice to meet you," Sarah echoes as she studies Quinn's friend. She's pretty—in an unusual sort of way—and she's wearing a very short skirt and a form-fitting shirt. Sarah somehow feels very underdressed in her faded blue jeans and cozy flannel shirt. Rachel's eyes are currently assessing Sarah in much the same way that Sarah is assessing her. It's a little unsettling, and Sarah kind of worries that Quinn's friend already dislikes her for whatever reason.

"So," Rachel drawls, clapping her hands together. "Shall we drop your bags at my place before we embark on my detailed itinerary for introducing Sash… _Sarah_ to the magnificence of New York City?"

Quinn grins indulgently before shaking her head at Rachel. "Actually, I rented a room at the Manhattan for the two of us," she admits, and Sarah feels her cheeks heat at the unspoken implication that they'd rather be alone.

Rachel's smile disappears entirely. "But you always stay with me," she whines. "I know my apartment is a little on the small side, but I'm more than happy to sleep on the floor."

Quinn's eyes dart to Sarah. "We just figured it would be…easier." Actually, they agreed it would be nice to be completely alone for the weekend without having to worry about any roommates interrupting them. "And if…Peter wants to drop by, he can," Quinn adds almost reluctantly. Sarah frowns at that, noticing that certain tone that Quinn seems to use whenever she mentions Rachel's boyfriend—like she doesn't particularly care for him even though she claims that he's a nice guy.

"He knows you're visiting. He wouldn't just drop by," Rachel assures her with a pout.

"It's already done, Rachel," Quinn says firmly, reaching for Sarah's hand again.

Rachel's lips purse before she nods jerkily. "Well…then…I suppose we should get you checked in," she concedes as they begin to walk. "At least the hotel is right at the top of Times Square, so you can be surrounded by all the wonder of Broadway," she tells Sarah.

Sarah grimaces slightly. "Yay," she deadpans, and Quinn chuckles.

Rachel's lips twitch as she studies the two of them. "I asked Quinn if she wanted me to try to get you tickets to any shows, but she insisted that it wasn't necessary. I argued that _of course_ it's necessary. It's Broadway! You can't leave New York without seeing at least one show."

"Rachel," Quinn warns, reaching her free hand out to casually touch Rachel's shoulder in warning. "Don't push."

Rachel huffs, leaning around Quinn and looking directly at Sarah. "There are so many amazing shows playing right now. I'd be happy to recommend one if you're uncertain which is most worth your time and money."

"I really don't care much for theater," Sarah finally tells her.

Rachel stops walking, planting her feet on the floor and her hands on her hips. "Excuse me?" she questions incredulously.

Quinn sighs, muttering, "Here we go," before she stops too, casting Sarah an apologetic look as she lets go of her hand again. "It's really not that big a deal," she defends when she turns to Rachel.

"Not a big deal? Not a big deal! It's my livelihood," Rachel insists, throwing her hands out dramatically.

"You're still in school," Quinn reminds her.

"A technicality," Rachel counters petulantly. "How can you not like the theater?" she asks Sarah.

Sarah shifts the strap of her bag up higher on her shoulder before juggling Quinn's bag to her other hand. Her eyes dart to Quinn before she takes a breath and admits, "I just think it's generally dull and unproductive, and there are more valuable ways for a person to spend their time."

Rachel gapes at her before sputtering, "But…it…it's art! It's…culture. It's visual storytelling!"

"Rachel," Quinn warns again, harsher this time. "Let it go."

Rachel huffs, crossing her arms. "Fine. To each their own, I suppose," she concedes snippily, beginning to move forward again. "I had thought that we could stop to grab a bagel and some coffee in this little shop nearby while we chat. You do like coffee, don't you?" she checks with Sarah in a slightly condescending manner.

"Yes," Sarah answers with a frown.

"Coffee sounds great," Quinn tells her agreeably, and Rachel smiles again, seeming to relax as she walks next to Quinn and immediately begins to chatter about something that happened in her classes this week.

Quinn gently pries her bag from Sarah's grip and shoulders it before she presses her hand back into Sarah's and squeezes it reassuringly. Sarah follows along, not having any idea where they are or where they're going as they cut through crowds of people at every turn. So far, she's not particularly impressed by New York or by Rachel Berry, and she can't quite figure out what Quinn sees in either one of them. But she supposes that she still has an entire weekend to try to figure it out.


	12. Just Get Dancey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drunk!Quinn drabble set directly after _The Heart Is A Bloom._

_Don't be fancy,_   
_just get dancey._   
_Why so serious?_   
_~Raise Your Glass, P!nk_

_xx_

"You were…so…so annoying in high school," Quinn grumbles over rim of her third Long Island Iced Tea.

Rachel's hand falters in its persistent movement higher and higher on Quinn's thigh. Her own Mai Tai has been mostly forgotten on the table next to Santana's abandoned Margarita and Josie's Black Russian. The two of them are currently out on the dance floor, grinding against one another in time with the throbbing bass and leaving Rachel and Quinn alone at the table that they'd commandeered. Poor Harry didn't have a fake ID, so he and Kurt are entertaining themselves elsewhere tonight while the girls are out on the town at the newest trendy club that Santana had heard about. Rachel had been keeping herself entertained by feeling up her girlfriend under the table until she was so rudely stopped by Quinn's petulant—slightly inebriated—tone.

"Ec-excuse me?" Rachel stutters.

"Annoying," Quinn repeats with a frown. "You…and your…your stupid voice. Always talking. And…and singing," she spits, leveling her bleary gaze on Rachel as she drags her fingers through her messy hair. "And I…I couldn't get it out of my head," she accuses, pointing a finger at Rachel. "And…and God! Your stupid skirts. And those fucking legs. Those legs," Quinn repeats breathily, glazed eyes dropping down as she leans forward and plants a hand on one of Rachel's legs. "These…these were such a distraction." Quinn complains—or reveres. Rachel can't quite tell the difference right now. Quinn's head comes up again and she scowls at Rachel. "I almost fell off the pyramid because of you!"

Rachel nods slowly, still struggling to take in Quinn's words. She's admittedly having trouble concentrating on them over the mesmerizing motion of her perfect, pink lips. But it looks like Quinn is upset with her, and she really doesn't want that. She hates when Quinn is upset with her. Especially if it means that Rachel will have to stop touching her. "I'm…sorry?" she offers.

Quinn flashes a wide, triumphant smile, nodding. "Good. You should be. It's all your fault."

"Okay," Rachel agrees, still mostly focused on her mouth. She really just wants to taste it, but Quinn is dropping it around her straw and taking another sip of her drink, and Rachel bites into her lip to keep from moaning in frustration. She wants those lips to be wrapped around something very different than that straw.

The moment Quinn releases it, Rachel practically crawls into her lap to claim that mouth for herself. Quinn moans into the kiss, brushing her tongue against Rachel's and digging her nails into Rachel's leg. She tastes so much better than the Mai Tai, and Rachel savors the sweet explosion of flavor. Their kisses gradually flow into nips and pecks until Rachel is mostly just nuzzling Quinn's neck, and Quinn hums in pleasure, her fingers flexing and releasing rhythmically against Rachel's hips.

"We should dance," Quinn blurts out, stilling Rachel's movements once again. "We never dance," she accuses, eyebrows furrowing.

"Yes, we do," Rachel argues, staring at her girlfriend in confusion.

"Naked doesn't count," Quinn counters, shuffling Rachel off her lap before she struggles to stand. "C'mon, Rach. We're gonna dance. Right now," she demands, grabbing for Rachel's hand and tugging her up.

Rachel stumbles after her with a frown until they're out in the middle of the dance floor next to Santana and Josie. Quinn pulls her flush against her body, matching every curve together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and Rachel realizes that this is a very good thing. So she slips her hands around Quinn's waist, sneaking one underneath her shirt enjoy the soft, warm flesh beneath her fingertips while Quinn's palms mold to her ass. "This fucking ass," Quinn mumbles, pressing her nose into Rachel's hair. "Made me stare at it all the time."

Rachel tucks her chin onto Quinn's shoulder and closes her eyes, grinning in contentment. "You can punish it later," she promises.


	13. This Time I'm Gonna Slow It Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A _Don't Blink_ side story. Sarah/Josie ficlet set after _Take A Cup Of Kindness._

_And fools rush in_   
_and I've been the fool before._   
_This time I'm gonna slow it down_   
_'cause I think this could be more._   
_The thing I'm looking for._   
_~Please Don't Say You Love Me, Gabrielle Aplin_

_xx_

It's Saturday, and Sarah doesn't have to work today. She'd finished transferring all the survey data onto the plans for the Chelsea Blue Project two hours before her deadline yesterday, which means she gets to enjoy the full weekend before diving back into meetings with the project manager and the construction supervisor bright and early on Monday morning. The last place she really wants to be today is back on the seven train heading into Manhattan, but once again, that's exactly where she is.

She self-consciously tugs the edge of her hoodie down a little farther over form-fitting Capri pants, shaking her head as she wonders exactly how she let Josie talk her into this—bicycling the Hudson River Greenway when she hasn't been on a bike in at least four years. She doesn't even have a bicycle—her old one is still back in Michigan, buried in the back of her parents' garage. Sarah had occasionally borrowed her roommate's bike back in New Haven when she'd been in the mood for some exercise or just really late for a class across campus, but she'd never bothered to bring her own with her from home.

"Don't worry about that," Josie had said. "There are rental shops all along the greenway. Just wear bike appropriate clothes."

The problem is that Sarah doesn't really have any of those either, hence the pants that are just a little too tight but still comfortable enough for movement and an oversized hoodie. The late March air is still chilled, especially in the morning, so Sarah thinks that she can get away with this. She does have a tank top on underneath the hoodie just in case the weatherman is right for a change and the temperature heats up this afternoon. A small wallet with her ID and some cash, along with her cellphone and keys, are secured in her pockets, but she feels naked without the messenger bag that's been practically attached to her since grad school.

She transfers to the four train at Grand Central, compulsively checking her pockets to make sure everything is still in place before gripping onto the overhead bar for the trip down to Bowling Green. She's supposed to meet Josie at the Battery Park bike rental on State Street at ten-thirty. As the train rattles downtown underneath Park Avenue, Sarah lets her mind wander over the last two and a half months of her friendship with Josie Deveraux.

She really hadn't known what to expect after the woman had unexpectedly kissed her on New Year's Eve. Part of her thought it had just been a pity kiss—actually, Sarah had spent most of the evening thinking that Josie was only talking to her because she felt sorry for her, but she was mostly just grateful that she had someone to talk to at all. Sarah had managed a few brief, stilted conversations before Josie had arrived, but she can't deny that she'd been silently wondering why she'd agreed to go to the party when staying home and watching the ball drop on television would have probably been more fun for her and certainly less stressful.

The midnight kiss had been quick and chaste, and frankly, Sarah didn't have much time to fully process it before Josie was grinning at her and wishing her a happy new year. There hasn't been a repeat. Apparently, when Josie had extended an offer of friendship, she'd meant _friendship_ , and that's fine with Sarah. Mostly fine. Josie is a very attractive woman, after all, and Sarah can't deny that she's found her eyes wandering on more than one occasion. But Josie is also Quinn's friend, and even though Sarah is trying (and succeeding) to be Quinn's friend as well, the whole being attracted to Josie thing just feels incredibly complicated right now.

In any case, Josie had walked her down to the sidewalk in the wee hours of New Year's Day and made certain that she'd gotten into a cab safely—she'd insisted that Sarah stay away from the subway and the drunken revelers—and even went as far as to pay for the cab ride after exchanging phone numbers and promising to call her for coffee sometime. Sarah hadn't really expected that phone call, but true to her word, Josie had gotten in touch with her two days later to ask when a good time to meet would be.

Since then, they've met for coffee on multiple occasions, had several weekday lunches when both of their schedules had allowed—well, mostly Josie's schedule since she's been the one hopping on the train downtown—and they'd even gone to the Bronx Museum of the Arts to see an exhibit on the influence of Latin American modernist architecture on contemporary art. Josie calls them friend dates. Sarah doesn't quite know what to call them, but she's happy to have someone in the city to spend time with outside of her job.

After what feels like forever, she finally exits the subway (and checks her pockets again) and walks the rest of the way to their meeting spot. The sun is shining, and it would almost look like spring might be just around the corner if she didn't know that there will supposedly be another potential winter blast moving in from the North West early next week. The calm before the storm. There's a cool breeze blowing in from the river, and Sarah is glad that she'd opted for the hoodie, although she imagines that she'll end up sweating before too long.

As she gets closer to the rental shop, she checks her phone for the time and to see if she has any messages, but all she sees is the last text from Josie about an hour ago to verify their "date." She glances around at the people—tourists and walkers and joggers and bikers already out enjoying the beautiful day—and she notices a familiar redhead leaning over a bicycle with her forearms casually slung across the handlebars as she waits. Sarah pulls a hand free from the pocket of her hoodie and waves, and Josie stands up straight, bicycle between her legs, as she smiles and waves back. Sarah takes a breath as she crosses the street, taking in the skintight, cropped bicycle pants that hug Josie's toned calves and the form-fitting, white bike jacket that tops it. Like Sarah, Josie had opted to pull her hair back into a ponytail. Unlike Sarah, Josie appears to be an avid biker—this becomes more apparent when she gets close enough to see that the bike between her legs is definitely not a rental but a high end hybrid.

And then the bike isn't between her legs anymore because she's sliding off of it and putting down the kickstand so that she can greet Sarah with a happy, "Hey, you made it in pretty good time."

"Yeah. I happened to hit the trains just right today." Sarah glances at Josie's bike again, noticing the little bag attached to the frame just beneath the seat and the mounted water bottle. "I'm guessing you didn't take a train."

Josie laughs, shaking her head. "I rode down the greenway."

"From Chelsea?"

"It's only a twenty minute ride," Josie points out with a shrug.

"Only twenty minutes," Sarah echoes flatly. "You do realize that I probably won't be able to keep up with you today," she warns, already feeling like this could be a disaster.

Josie waves off her concern. "I'm not planning to race you. We can just enjoy the day and the scenery, maybe stop for lunch somewhere. It'll be fun."

Sarah can't help the little smile the comes to her lips at Josie's faith in that declaration and the way her eyes sparkle with anticipation. "Okay," Sarah agrees with a nod. "I guess I should get a bike," she reasons, digging out her small wallet and starting for the shop, but Josie closes a hand over hers and steps into her path with a shake of her head.

"It's already taken care of," she informs her. "I reserved you a bike yesterday when you agreed to come."

Sarah feels her cheeks heat slightly. "Josie, you didn't need to do that."

Josie grins. "Actually, I did. The bikes tend to get picked over fast on a weekend. I got a comfort bike for you, since you said you haven't been on one in a while."

"Thanks," Sarah murmurs, following Josie over to the guy manning the rentals and listening as she gives him her reservation number.

The bike the guy wheels out for Sarah isn't anywhere near as nice as Josie's, but it looks like it's in good shape, and when she slips her leg over the frame, she's happy to find that it's a good size for her and the seat is relatively comfortable, all things considered. The bike has a little bag with a Bike and Roll logo attached to the handlebars, complete with a bike lock and key, so Sarah takes a moment to empty her pockets and slip her wallet, phone and keys into the bag too.

"Ready," Josie asks with an eager grin, mounting her own bike once again. When Sarah nods, Josie instructs her to, "Just shout if you need to stop."

They push off and head down into Battery Park with Sarah following behind Josie. It takes a minute or two for Sarah's sense of balance to fully kick in, but she supposes that people compare remembering old skills to riding a bicycle for a reason because it doesn't take very long for her to feel comfortable riding again. Of course, once she stops worrying about tipping the bike over, she's free to actually start paying attention to the scenery, and the very first thing she notices is the curve of Josie's backside on the bike seat in front of her. Sarah shakes her head and pulls her eyes away from that to actually look at where she is and where they're going.

She has to admit—reluctantly and only to herself—that parts of Manhattan are incredibly beautiful. The bike trail cuts along the river in the park and past the Museum of Jewish Heritage. Rachel Berry pops into Sarah's head unbidden, and she idly wonders if she and Quinn have ever been there before the thought of them slips away completely as Josie leads her along the Esplanade. They leave Battery Park and begin to ride through the cityscape, and the first time Sarah calls out to stop Josie is in Pumphouse Park under the shadow of the Freedom Tower.

"Are you okay?" Josie asks with a concerned frown as Sarah glides to a stop next to her.

Sarah smiles sheepishly, nodding. "Yeah. I just needed to stop for a minute."

Josie watches her in mild confusion while she unzips her bag and digs out her phone, flipping on the camera and pointing it up at the skyline to capture a few photos of the building. Next to her, Josie chuckles as she crosses her arms and waits.

"Sorry," Sarah mutters, ducking her head as she pulls her phone back down.

"Don't apologize," Josie tells her with a fond smile. "I love that you get so excited over the things you love. It's se…" she hesitates and purses her lips for a moment before she finishes with, "inspiring."

Sarah blushes again, not having missed what Josie almost said. She slips her phone back into the bag. "Okay, we can go."

Josie grins and pushes off. Sarah alternates between following Josie and peddling side-by-side with her in the less crowded sections of the path. And her gaze alternates between the waterfront with the Hoboken skyline and the buildings of Manhattan—and occasionally Josie's very nice biking form.

They stop at Chelsea Piers and take a little detour so that Sarah can get up close and personal with the IAC building and it's curved, reflective glass. Josie doesn't grumble even a little when Sarah asks if they can chain their bikes to the nearby rack and walk all the way around the building; she just pulls out her lock and clips her bike in place. As they circle the building, Josie listens to all of Sarah's excited gushing about it and even pulls out her own phone to snap a few pictures.

"You know, I don't think I've ever stopped to really look at this building before," Josie comments. "But it is pretty gorgeous at night."

Sarah glances at Josie to see her gazing up at the building with a thoughtful smile, and she decides right then that she'd really like to come back to Chelsea some night and find out just how gorgeous she is. It!— _it_  is.

They walk back to their bikes and unchain them, riding back onto the trail and continuing uptown. It's already eleven-thirty by the time they make it to Riverside Park, and Josie asks her if she wants to stop for an early lunch. Sarah is feeling a little hungry, so she agrees, and Josie leads them through the park to the bike rack outside of the Pier i Cafe, where there are tables with umbrellas scattered along the waterfront and surrounded by flowers. They chain their bikes, and Sarah fusses with her hair and sweatshirt, feeling decidedly underdressed, although she can see more than a few people walking toward the cafe dressed casually in shorts and t-shirts and jogging and bike gear.

Sarah pushes the sleeves of her sweatshirt up and then tries to casually dab the sweat from her brow. Josie grins at her and offers her a sip from her water bottle, and Sarah accepts it gratefully while Josie unzips her jacket, revealing a glistening layer of perspiration on her chest and—oh. Josie only has a sports bra on under the jacket, so Sarah gets an eyeful of well-defined abdominal muscles, and then she gets an eyeful of more when Josie shrugs off the jacket, dropping it over her bike before she lifts her arm to wipe at her own brow. Sarah nearly chokes on her mouthful of water as her gaze trails helplessly over the curve of Josie's right hip and up along her side where a stylized fox stalks over her pale flesh—its front paw just disappearing beneath the waistband of her bike pants and tail curling under her ribs, partially hidden by the bottom edge of her bra.

"You didn't have that in college," Sarah breathes out. Josie pauses, glancing at her in silent question, and Sarah feels her face heat even more. "The…ah…tattoo. N-not that I was checking you out back then," she rushes out quickly. "But you…you used to jog around campus. I…I saw you a few times…and you…um…the sports bra," she explains lamely, gesturing to her before she passes back the water bottle.

Josie grins a little wickedly, taking the bottle and sliding it back on her bike . "It's okay, Sarah. I did used to flash my midriff a lot back at Yale," she reminds her as she unzips her bike bag and tugs out something blue. "And you're right. I didn't have the tattoo then. I got it after I graduated law school."

"It's…um…nice," Sarah says, shoving her hands into the pockets of her hoodie.

"Really?" Josie questions, shaking out the rolled-up blue material in her hands to reveal a short-sleeved bicycle shirt. "Because I remember you weren't really a fan of Quinn's tattoo. You even made her get it removed."

"She had a tramp stamp of Ryan Seacrest!" Sarah reminds Josie incredulously. "Like you wouldn't have asked her to get rid of that too."

Josie laughs, shaking her head. "Yeah, you have a point," she concedes. "But just so you know, I'm not having mine removed."

Sarah nods slowly. "I…I would never ask you to."

Josie smiles at her then, soft and mysterious, and Sarah's stomach erupts with flutters that she really can't pass off for hunger pangs. "That's good to know," Josie murmurs. Then she tugs the short sleeved shirt over her head, hiding the fox on her skin once again and pulling up the zipper over her breasts just enough to be technically decent before she tightens her ponytail, rolls up her jacket, and tucks it into the bag. She pulls out her wallet, stuffing it into the back pocket of her shirt along with her phone. "Come on. Lunch is on me."

Sarah pulls her eyes away from Josie's body and shakes her head, scrambling to get her own wallet. "You paid for my bike. I'm buying you lunch," she insists.

"No, you're not," Josie argues with a grin as she walks down the path to the cafe. "I asked you out today, so it's my treat."

Sarah's steps falter as she rushes to catch up. "This…this isn't a date," she says uncertainly. It sounds more like a question than a statement even to her own ears.

Josie's lips quirk into an odd half-smile before she sighs. "A friend date," she reluctantly clarifies with a shrug. "I still asked you, so I'm still paying."

"N-no," Sarah repeats, falling back into step with her. "We'll go Dutch." That's the least date-like, after all.

Josie flashes her an impish grin. "We'll see," she chirps, unexpectedly slipping her hand into Sarah's as she tugs her toward the cafe. Sarah tries not to notice how comfortably their hands fit together or how soft Josie's skin is, but it's pretty impossible—as impossible as ignoring that flutter in her belly or how often it keeps happening to her in Josie's presence. In this moment, she can't really say that she wants to. She has a feeling that things are about to get incredibly complicated.


	14. Wash Away What's Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet set after _Make It Harder To Be Near You_ and before _Dreaming While I Drove_ (ficlet) and _A Feline Casanova._

_The rain can't hurt me now._  
_This rain will wash away what's past._  
_~A Little Fall Of Rain, Les Misérables_

_xx_

He doesn't usually pay attention to the musicals that travel through the Kimmel Center. As an athletic trainer on the staff of the Philadelphia Eagles, he's far more concerned with the teams that travel into Lincoln Financial Field. Matt Rutherford's days of singing and dancing are far, far behind him, but that doesn't stop his eyes from catching on a familiar name in the entertainment section of the local newspaper. (So sue him for reading it once in a while after he finishes the sports pages.)

Rachel Berry just isn't someone you can easily forget, no matter how much you might want to. He remembers the little girl with the huge voice—and that fine ass in the those tiny skirts that she'd favored and those little red, booty shorts she'd worn that one time in glee. Hey, he's a guy, after all.

He smiles when he sees her name mentioned in the small article about _Les Misérables_ , happy to find out that she'd made it out of Lima and onto a Broadway stage—well, a touring stage anyway. Curiosity is what has him grabbing his laptop to check out the show schedule and ticket prices, but it's the sudden, inspired idea to surprise his girlfriend, Denise, with tickets and create a nice, romantic date night that has him making the impulsive purchase.

He tells Denise about Rachel Berry when he tells her about the tickets. It's not a big deal or some secretive thing—just the chance to watch an old acquaintance make good. Denise thinks he's sweet for wanting to go see his old classmate, and, "I've always wanted to see _Les Mis_ ," she tells him with a smile, so he puts on his best suit and escorts his girl out for a night on the town—dinner and then the show.

The seats are in the balcony, so they're not close enough to the stage to see every expression on everyone's faces, but there's no mistaking Rachel Berry's voice for anyone else. She's even better than Matt had remembered, but nobody told him how fucking depressing the show would be, or that Rachel's character would end up dead. Denise hands him a tissue as she cries into her own, and Matt takes it quickly, trying to look as manly as possible as he wipes the moisture from his face.

"We should go wait at the stage door," Denise tells him after the show. "I've always wanted to do that."

"I don't know," he hedges. He'd only really known Rachel for a year when he was seventeen, and he'd never really talked to her much—even if they had danced together a few times. "Rachel probably won't even remember me."

"Come on," she urges. "It'll be fun."

So they walk around the Kimmel Center until they find a little crowd standing outside an unmarked door. "Excuse me. Are you all waiting for the cast?" Denise asks a woman at the back.

"Yes. They should be coming out soon," she tells them politely before returning her attention to the door.

Matt and Denise wait in the back of the crowd, and Denise still has her program between her hands and ready to be signed like most of the other people around them. The door opens a few minutes later, and everyone claps and cheers as the actors spill out. Matt cranes his neck and looks over their heads, scanning their faces for Rachel Berry. Even though he hadn't really gotten a good look at her face when she was on stage, there's no possibility of mistaking her for anyone else when his eyes finally find her—and maturity has certainly been very kind to her.

He watches Rachel smile and chat a few moments with every person as she makes her way down the line, signing autographs and getting closer and closer to them with every step until she's finally in front of them. Denise holds out her program for Rachel to take, and she elbows Matt lightly in his ribs when Rachel asks, "Who should I make it out to?"

"Um….Matt and Denise," he tells her softly.

Rachel grins, signing the program before she glances up, and her eyes flash with recognition a few seconds after they land on him. "Matt?" she asks in surprise. "Matt Rutherford?"

He chuckles, impressed that she remembers him. "Yeah."

"Oh, my God!" she squeals, throwing her arms around him unexpectedly and squeezing him tight. "I haven't seen you in so long." She lets him go with a megawatt smile. "You disappeared into thin air after sophomore year."

Matt shrugs. "My family moved."

"You look so good," she compliments before her eyes dart to Denise. "I'm sorry. I'm Rachel Berry," she introduces herself with a friendly smile, as if she hadn't just starred in a musical and signed an autograph for the both of them. "Matt and I went to high school together for two years."

"I know," Denise tells her. "He told me."

Rachel glances around at the rest of the dwindling crowd with a mild frown. "Hey, would you both hang around for a few minutes? I'd love catch up if you have some time. We could go have a coffee or dessert…my treat," she offers hopefully.

"That would be nice," Denise answers, smiling at Matt. "I'd love to hear what this one was like back then."

Rachel laughs and says, "Very quiet," and Matt ducks his head in embarrassment. "We hardly even knew he was there most of the time, but we certainly missed him when he was gone," she muses kindly. "I'll be right back," she promises, quickly moving on to the next person awaiting an autograph.

Matt and Denise step out of the way, waiting just down the block while they watch the crowd gradually dissipate until the only people left are them, Rachel, and a blonde woman that Rachel is chatting with as she pockets her gold marker. Matt frowns a little when they both start to walk in their direction—the blonde is smiling at him, and she starts to look more and more familiar the closer she comes. She almost looks like—but that's the last person she could be—except—

"Holy shit," he exclaims out loud, ignoring the back of Denise's hand connecting with his stomach in silent chastisement. But his eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open, because it _is_ her. The short hair and the friendly smile had thrown him, but it's definitely, "Quinn Fabray," he breathes out in awe.

Quinn chuckles. "Hi, Matt."

"I guess you remember Quinn," Rachel says with a smile as her palm fits comfortably into Quinn's hand. Matt doesn't miss the easy familiarity of the action, but it won't quite click in his mind. Cheerio Quinn Fabray is standing in front of him holding Rachel Berry's hand—her mortal enemy. And they're not fighting. In fact, with soft smiles and postures speaking of quiet intimacy, they are _so far_ from fighting.

"Um…yeah…you look…really good," he stutters. Denise tucks her hand into his elbow and clears her throat, snapping out of his stupor. "Oh, this is my girlfriend, Denise. Denise, this is Quinn. We…um…also went to high school together. With Rachel," he adds unnecessarily.

"It's nice to meet you," Quinn says politely, holding out the hand that isn't linked with Rachel's for Denise to shake.

"What are you doing in Philadelphia?" Matt asks Quinn stupidly.

A secretive smile curves Quinn's lips, and she gazes lovingly at Rachel, who returns the look with her own heart in her eyes as she practically melts into Quinn's side. "Oh, Matt. We really do have a lot catch up on," Rachel murmurs happily.

When what he's seeing finally clicks, Matt can't help feeling like that's the understatement of the century.   Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray are together. Like, _together_ together. Like being all coupley right in front of him. Suddenly, he can't wait to sit down somewhere and find out just how in the hell this happened, because he has a feeling it's going to be far more entertaining than the show. **  
**

**  
**


	15. I've Seen the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Set after _Getting Crazy By the Bottom of the Bottle_ and the _If I'm A Fool For Love_ ficlet and before _Forget the Wrong That I've Done._

_It's giving more when you feel like giving up._  
_I've seen the light._  
_It's in my daughter's eyes._  
_~In My Daughter's Eyes, Martina McBride_

_xx_

Judy is exhausted.

She'd forgotten what it was like to try to keep up with a ten-year-old, and even with the vague memories slowly coming back to her, she doesn't recall either Frannie or Quinn being quite so rambunctious when they were that age. TJ could probably light up half of Broadway with the energy that he'd expended as he'd raced from exhibit to exhibit in the Brooklyn Children's Museum today. Luckily, Quinnie had been there to keep him from completely disappearing into the crowd of eager children. Still, Judy is glad to finally be back at her daughter's apartment and able to sit down and catch her breath.

At least Frannie won't be able to complain that this trip to New York hasn't been educational—not that she has much room to complain about how Judy has chosen to entertain her grandson when she and _Timothy_ had left TJ in her care for ten days to go sailing off to the Bahamas on a Christian cruise in a last ditch effort to save their failing marriage.

Judy does feel badly about that. She'd been where Frannie is now, clinging to the status quo with sharpened nails cutting into numb skin and senses dulled in a haze of liquor. In some ways, Judy thinks that she was lucky to have her heart shattered by a series of hard blows, one after the other—Quinn's teenaged pregnancy, Russell kicking their baby girl out of the house, and the slaps that Judy had taken across the face every time she'd begged him to bring Quinnie home until she'd finally caught him in bed with _that woman_. Judy finally hit rock bottom in her empty bottle of merlot.

Frannie is still slipping down the hillside, inch by painful inch with her eyes half-closed.

If not for TJ, Judy wouldn't hesitate to wish that Frannie would finally open her eyes fully and leave her husband, but children always make everything so much more complicated. It had taken Judy far too long to realize that sometimes doing what's best for your children means _not_ staying and trying to make the marriage work. Frannie isn't quite there yet.

She also isn't quite there with the mending of her relationship with Quinn. She'd refused to attend her sister's wedding to Rachel Berry last summer—thanks in large part to _Timothy_ —but at least she'd sent them a gift. And TJ had offered to be his grandma's date, wanting to see his Aunt Quinn—he'd finally stopped calling her Aunt _Lucy_ shortly after Judy had moved to Chicago—but _Timothy_ had rather adamantly vetoed that suggestion.

So Judy made an executive decision in her role as grandmother and temporary guardian, and she'd bought herself and TJ two tickets to New York City to visit Quinn. And Rachel.

Well—right after she'd called and asked Quinnie if it would be okay if they stayed with them for a few days. Quinn had seemed surprised by the request, and of course, she'd had to check with Rachel before she could say _yes_ , but she had, and now Judy and TJ are spending five days with them.

The apartment is a little on the small side with three grown women and an inquisitive child running around, but it's comfortable enough. TJ is certainly enjoying the pull out sofa bed and the cat that has taken to curling up with him for the last two nights.

Judy is glad that her daughter and daughter-in-law have been fairly circumspect with their affections with TJ in the apartment. TJ knows that they're married, of course, and he understands what that means, and what it means that his aunt likes girls the way his mommy likes his daddy. (The way she used to like his daddy, anyway, since Judy isn't so certain how unwavering Frannie's devotion is these days.) Somehow, despite what Frannie and _Timothy_ have tried to teach him about what a family should look like, he's learned to see things with a more open mind. Judy suspects that it's because most of his friends come from families that look nothing like his own, and he likes them all just the same. Still, he _is_ only ten, and Judy isn't prepared to explain sex to him in any incarnation—but especially not _that_ kind.

Still, anyone can see that Quinn and Rachel are happy and in love. Being in this cozy apartment amidst their warm smiles and easy laughter is so drastically different than being in Frannie's big, drafty house with deafening silence filling every room.

Rachel is busy today with rehearsal,  so she'd gone off to wherever it is she goes to do whatever it is she does to prepare for her next show. Quinnie had put her latest novel aside for the day to take Judy and TJ to the museum, and Judy was happy to spend the day with her daughter and her grandson, even if she did feel her heart break once or twice when she'd looked at them together and remembered what Quinn had been forced to give up with Beth. She would have been such a good mother.

Maybe not at sixteen—but then Judy hadn't been a very good mother at forty-something. Sometimes you have to grow into the role, and sometimes it takes much longer than it should.

Quinnie is fussing in the kitchen right now, getting dinner started for them. Judy had offered to help—she's very good in the kitchen, after all—but Quinn shooed her away and into the chair, reminding her that, "You're a guest, Mom. Let me cook for you for a change."

Judy had smiled and agreed, but as she watched Quinn carefully replace the pan that Judy lifted and moved from its resting place before she'd been sent away, she thought of Rachel's whispered warning that, "Quinn is very particular about her kitchen. She notices everything. Even when you think there's no way she could ever miss one little skillet when she has six more of them."

Judy had thought Rachel was exaggerating, as Rachel is prone to do, but now she isn't so certain.

TJ is currently playing with the cat, laughing as he points a laser pen-light around the room for Oliver to chase after like a maniac. Judy knows that one of them will undoubtedly get bored soon enough, and TJ will probably go back to staring at one of those little video games that he carries around with him on his phone. Judy still thinks he's a too young for that, but Frannie insists it's a necessity in this day and age.

Judy watches as Oliver suddenly abandons his chase, ears perking up as he trots over to the door and stares it down. A moment later, the doorknob rattles and turns right before Rachel enters the apartment, and Oliver practically wraps himself around her feet with a demanding mewl.

She reaches down to scratch his ears, and he bumps his head up into her fingers for just a moment before he races ahead of her in the direction of the kitchen.

"Hi, Aunt Rachel!" TJ exclaims, bouncing up onto his knees on the sofa with an excited grin.

"Hello," she echoes sweetly, offering a tired smile to both Judy and TJ before she asks the boy, "Did you have fun at the museum today?"

"So much fun. I got to see a shark's jawbone and build this monster tower out of building blocks," he exclaims with twinkling eyes as he reaches one arm up over his head as high as he can, "and play with all these cool musical instruments. You shoulda come."

"I should have," she agrees easily. "It probably would have been more fun than reblocking choreography all day."

Quinn walks out of the kitchen at that moment with a grin—Oliver following after her with wide, expectant eyes—as she wipes her hands on a towel that she then slings over her shoulder. "Is Derek still being a pri-," she glances at TJ before she changes her word choice to, "perfectionist?"

"Yes," Rachel sighs with a mild pout.

"Don't worry. You'll be wowing him with your talent in no time," Quinn promises, brushing a brief kiss across the corner of Rachel's mouth with casual intimacy. Judy is struck again by how comfortable they are together—so very different from how she'd been with Russell or how Frannie is with _Timothy._

Oliver lets out another mewl as he paws at Rachel's leg, and she sighs as she glances down at him. "I know. I know. No one but me ever feeds you."

TJ giggles while Quinn scoffs. "I fed him thirty minutes ago."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "But you are not _me_ ," she points out. "We both know that he only believes he's actually been fed when _I_ feed him. It's the only time he loves me."

"Can I feed him?" TJ asks.

Rachel grins down at him. "He already loves you," she tells him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "But you can help me clean out his bowl and get him some fresh water."

TJ flashes a smile and jumps off the sofa. "Cool. I really like Ollie," he says, using Quinn's nickname for the cat. "I really want a dog, but Mom won't let me have one. Cats are pretty cool though," he reveals as he lets Rachel lead him into the kitchen. "But I was asking for a dog, so maybe I should ask for a cat instead."

"Maybe you should," Rachel agrees conspiratorially, glancing back to wink at Quinn. "After all, a cat is how I convinced your aunt to agree to a pet."

Quinn smiles fondly as she watches them shuffle into the kitchen together, and Judy can see the soft look in her eyes. "She's very good with him," she comments.

"Yeah," Quinn breathes out. "With Beth too," she says, momentarily lost in her own thoughts before she shakes her head and looks at Judy with a sudden grin. "How pissed is Frannie going to be when TJ starts begging for a cat?"

Judy chuckles. "I'm sure I'll be hearing an earful about that and everything else when they get back from their cruise."

"Well, you know...you're always welcome here if you need a vacation from them," Quinn offers with a vaguely hopeful look in her eyes.

"I know, dear," Judy tells her gratefully, thinking that perhaps she should try to get to New York more often in the future.

Quinn nods, glancing back toward the kitchen where TJ has somehow transitioned from talking about pets to asking if they can have a _How To Train Your Dragon_ marathon tonight. Rachel's enthusiastic, "I _adore_ Toothless," tells Judy what she'll probably be doing after dinner.

Quinn smiles indulgently. "Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes," she tells Judy, dragging the towel off her shoulder, and with a sigh, she murmurs, "Thanks, Mom. For...this. I'm really glad you both came to visit."

"So am I," Judy agrees with a smile, reaching out to take Quinn's hand and give it a light squeeze. "So am I."


	16. And Even Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Deleted scene from Chapter Six of _Lifelong Love Letter._

_I am underprepared,_  
 _but I am willing,_  
 _and even better -_  
 _I get to be the other half of you._  
 _~I Choose You, Sara Bareilles_

_xx_

Sarah was right about her night being filled with bad pop music and Broadway ballads, although she has to say that Quinn's musical preferences are getting at least equal play by the band—familiar oldies slipping in between more modern songs—and while Rachel has only taken over the microphone once so far, there's still more than enough time for her to sneak in another performance or two. Sarah does have to admit that her serenade of Quinn was sweet.

She also has to admit that Santana Lopez has a decent voice, as evidenced by her unexpected performance. Sarah kind of wonders how much she's had to drink.

She's met a few more of Quinn's friends from high school, and her opinion that they're all a little crazy is still standing pretty firm. Mostly, she's been spending her time dancing with Josie or chatting with Jason and his wife about the remodeling project that they're planning for their house. But right now, she's waiting for the bartender to pour her two glasses of wine—one for herself and the other for Jo.

"Sarah. Hello. It's nice to see you again," comes a pleasant voice that she doesn't quite recognize, so she turns to look at the smiling man who's now standing next to her at the bar, and it takes her a few seconds for his familiar face to register.

"Oh, hi. Peter," she adds after a tiny hesitation.

He chuckles, nodding in confirmation that she's gotten his name right. "It's been a few years."

Probably six at least, and aside from one long ago dinner that they'd shared with Quinn, Rachel, Santana, and Kurt, they'd only met briefly one other time. Honestly, Sarah probably wouldn't even remember his name if she didn't have him irrevocably associated with Rachel in her mind.

The bartender places Sarah's glasses of wine in front of her, and Peter orders a scotch on the rocks. She's just about to excuse herself when he kindly asks her, "How have you been?"

"Good. I've been good. Working," she supplies. "What about you? Are you...um...still doing Shakespeare, or…?"

"When I can," he answers with a smile. "Right now, I'm doing _The Dark Heart_  at the Shoenfeld."

Sarah offers him a polite smile, because he might as well be speaking Russian. "That's...nice."

"It's an adaptation of _Wuthering Heights_ , so _nice_  is probably not the best adjective to describe it," he tells her with a wry grin, and his description tickles against her awareness. She's fairly certain that Josie has mentioned wanting to see some new play based on that novel. "But I know you're not much into theater," he adds.

"Not really," she admits. "I'm actually surprised you remembered that, to be honest."

Peter laughs. "Are you kidding me? I dated Rachel. I had to listen to many a rant about your mission to crush Quinn's artistic spirit," he relays as he picks up his scotch.

Yeah, that sounds about right. Sarah shrugs. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be. I have a feeling that you probably had to hear my name a time or two as well," he says knowingly.

Sarah smiles slightly. "I might have. But to be fair, Quinn never really ranted. She just had this...tone."

"Ah, the tone," he repeats with a nod. "I remember it well. Except Rachel used the tone to call you Sasha for the first two months."

Sarah laughs a little at that. "I remember." It had pissed her off the first time they'd met. Quinn had insisted at the time that Rachel just had selective hearing and didn't really assimilate names until she'd met the person—unless they were a famous performer, and then she had a photographic memory.

"You know, I've always wondered," Sarah begins hesitantly after a moment. "Did you know? Or suspect? About them?" she clarifies unnecessarily. "I mean, we were kind of in the same boat for a while." And she's always wondered if Peter had picked up on Rachel's latent feelings for Quinn in the same way Sarah had with Quinn's for Rachel.

Peter hums and takes a sip of his scotch before he answers. "I can't say that I was enlightened enough to figure it out when Rachel and I were dating. Looking back, I probably should have," he confesses with a shrug. "I can't even tell you how many dates she cancelled every time Quinn so much as mentioned that she might be coming for a visit."

Sarah nods in understanding. "Probably as many as Quinn cancelled to visit her or go see one of her shows."

"And yet here we are," Peter points out with an easygoing smile, gesturing around them to wedding festivities.

"Yeah, here we are," Sarah echoes, still kind of wondering how all of this had happened.

"Better for the experience?" Peter asks.

Sarah glances away from him, unerringly finding her girlfriend and noticing that Josie is on her way over here, and she smiles softly. "Definitely better," she murmurs, knowing it to be true with everything in her as Josie quickly closes the distance between them.

Peter lifts his glass in a toast. "Then here's to us, Sarah Cartwright."

She returns her gaze to him and picks up one of the glasses of wine from the bar, gently touching it to the rim of Peter's scotch. "Here's to us."

"Hey, what are we toasting?" Josie questions with a smile as she slips her arm around Sarah's waist.

"Our mutual amazingness," Peter supplies.

Sarah laughs as she passes the second glass of wine to Josie. "Well, I can certainly drink to that. At least to two-thirds of it," Josie amends with a playful smile as she lifts her glass and takes a sip. "I'm Josie Deveraux, by the way," she introduces herself, releasing her light hold on Sarah's waist to offer her hand to Peter. "I don't think we've ever officially met."

Peter transfers his glass to his other hand and takes her hand in a firm shake. "Peter Kendrick."

"I know," she admits, pulling back. "Quinn pointed you out to me back when you were doing _A Comedy of Errors_  at the Delacorte. I've read good things about your new show _._  I can't wait to see it."

Peter's smile widens in delight at the revelation. "Ah, so you _are_  a fan of the theater."

"Very much so," Josie acknowledges.

"We've learned to compromise," Sarah explains with a smile meant for Josie that's immediately returned.

"The cornerstone of every good relationship," Peter murmurs with a nod. "If you're serious about wanting to see my show, just tell Rachel to call me with whatever day you're thinking of attending, and I'll see what I can do about getting you VIP seats," he offers.

"We will absolutely do that," Josie agrees quickly. "Thank you."

Sarah silently groans, but she knows that Josie is thrilled, so, "Yeah, thanks."

Peter bows his head in acknowledgment before he excuses himself to find his date, and Josie slips her hand inside of Sarah's as they watch him walk away. "So that was the infamous Peter," she muses.

Sarah laughs a little as they start to walk back to their table. "About as infamous as I am, I guess," she quips, although it seems to her that Peter and Quinn genuinely get along much better these days than Sarah thinks she ever will with Rachel. Being happy for her today doesn't mean that she suddenly wants to start planning spa days with her—or whatever Rachel does for fun.

"It was nice of him to offer us tickets," Josie mentions with an air of hopefulness in her voice when they sit down.

Sarah still finds theater incredibly boring for the most part, and Josie knows not to expect her to attend any musicals because people breaking into song in the middle of a conversation still feels incredibly ridiculous to her, but Josie does occasionally mention a play that she'd like to see in the hope that Sarah will go with her. It's not really a regular occurrence, so Sarah will usually consider it, depending on the play.

"You should tell Rachel to call him," Sarah indulges with a smile, watching Josie's eyes twinkle with pleasure before she leans in to capture Sarah's lips.

"You're the best," she whispers, and Sarah sighs in pleasure. When the band transitions into another slow song, Josie glances out at the dance floor. "Do you mind if I collect on my dance with the brides?" she asks.

Sarah follows her line of sight, seeing that Quinn and Rachel are beginning to walk back to the bridal table hand in hand. They'd been pretty much monopolized all evening by the other guests, and she and Josie had kept themselves fairly occupied with one another. "You should probably grab one of them before someone else does," Sarah tells her.

"You mean _we_  should," Josie corrects with a sly grin.

Sarah shakes her head. "I'm not dancing with Rachel."

"You hugged her earlier."

" _She_  hugged _me_ ," Sarah argues stubbornly.

Josie shrugs. "Semantics."

"You're a lawyer. You _know_  that isn't a strong argument," Sarah challenges knowingly.

Josie chuckles. "I know. But I still thought I'd give it a try."

Sarah pats Josie's leg, nodding toward the couple. "Just go dance with Quinn."

Josie smiles and brushes her lips over Sarah's cheek before she stands and walks away, and Sarah takes a sip of her wine as she watches her girlfriend chat with Quinn and Rachel for a few moments before she takes Quinn's hand and leads her out for a dance. Rachel watches them with a grin from her vantage point before she starts to walk in Sarah's direction. _Exactly_  in Sarah's direction—right for her table.

"Damn it, Jo," Sarah curses under her breath, setting her wine glass back on the table just as Rachel tucks the skirt of her dress beneath her and slides into the chair that Josie had abandoned.

"I've been sent to keep you company," she explains with a polite smile.

"You really don't need to do that," Sarah promises. "I'm content to entertain myself, and I'm sure there are a dozen other people here that haven't had a chance to personally congratulate you yet."

"Possibly," Rachel acknowledges with a nod. "But I was also instructed to stay here and not wander off so that Josie can dance with me next."

Sarah laughs, because that sounds exactly like something Josie would say. "So I'm actually supposed to keep _you_  company."

Rachel purses her lips, biting back a grin. "That was general the idea, yes."

They sit in awkward silence for a moment while they watch their significant others dance before Sarah caves in and asks, "Should we attempt to make small talk?"

"That's never really worked for us in the past," Rachel points out honestly.

"No. It hasn't," Sarah agrees.

Another awkward silence passes before Rachel suggests, "We could always dance," with an inquisitive glance in Sarah's direction. Sarah is surprised by the suggestion, and she knows her eyebrows are somewhere in her hairline. "Or not," Rachel amends with a frown.

"Not would probably be better," Sarah confirms.

Rachel nods slowly as she worries her lower lip. "We're never going to be friends, are we?" she finally asks, and Sarah almost thinks she sounds a little sorry about that, but it's probably just her imagination.

"Probably not. But I think we're kind of stuck with each other at this point," Sarah muses with a small smile. Josie and Quinn are friends, and Sarah and Quinn are friends, and Josie and Rachel are friends, and Sarah is completely in love with Josie—she doesn't see any of those things changing anytime soon.

"There are worse things," Rachel points out with a smile of her own.

Sarah nods in agreement. "Yeah. There are."

After that, they're both content to sit in companionable silence while they watch their _someones better_  share a dance, knowing that they both get to share their lives with the women they love.


	17. A Token of Tender Emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Flclet set after _Every Hour Has Come To This._

_This tiny ring is a token of tender emotion,_  
_An endless pool of love that's as deep as the ocean._  
_~She Wears My Ring, Elvis Presley_

_xx_

Rachel's opening night as Fanny Brice goes off without a hitch, and Quinn couldn't be prouder of her fiancée. Her  _fiancée_. Butterflies take flight in her stomach at the thought, and her gaze automatically falls to the diamond ring on her finger. She drags her lower lip between her teeth in a hopeless attempt to stifle the giddy smile on her face. She's pretty much been useless all day today, unable to write a single word between the distraction of that ring catching the light to create a hypnotizing sparkle and the excitement of the last two days (and the exhaustion of thoroughly celebrating the last two days in very exuberant ways).

The fact that Rachel had delivered such an effortless and brilliant performance on so little sleep is actually pretty impressive. She has a matinee today that she'd dragged herself off to about an hour ago, and Quinn is supposed to be working on her novel, but she has to admit that it's probably a lost cause for the rest of the weekend—especially since she has a very important errand that she absolutely needs to run. In fact, if she can manage to drag her eyes away from this gorgeous ring for more than a few seconds at a time, she might actually be able to get it done today.

Sighing, she moves a very uncooperative Oliver off of her lap, ignoring his disgruntled mewl at being displaced after he'd obviously decided that Quinn had nothing better to do today than to be his personal cat bed. Then she has to change her clothes because her current ones are covered in cat hair. Once that's done, she grabs her purse and heads outside. It's a beautiful day, and she fully takes advantage of the cooperative weather as she walks the long blocks to Fifth Avenue before she turns and heads uptown, engaging in a little window shopping along the way.

Those familiar butterflies come back in a swarm when she reaches 57th Street, and she just stands outside for a moment, staring at the iconic storefront before she takes a deep breath and walks inside. This isn't something that she ever could have imagined doing as a little girl—well, she'd imagined shopping at Tiffany's of course, but not for  _this_. She unerringly finds the display case because she's been in here several times before. Unsurprisingly, none of the salesclerks ever really bother to ask if they can help her unless she's looking at something they think she might be legitimately interested in or could actually afford. Seeing her browse the engagement rings alone has never seemed to set off any potential-sale arrows over her head, and that's been fine with her in the past, but today is different.

Quinn taps her nails on the counter for a few minutes, gazing around the store to notice that one of the clerks is currently helping another customer while the other is fussing with the watches in the next area, completely ignoring her. She determinedly steps over to woman, leaning against the counter as she clears her throat. "Excuse me."

The woman glances at her with eyes that quickly rake over her appearance—a modest, blue sweater topping designer jeans—and Quinn can almost see her assessing whether or not waiting on her will be worth her time. "I'll be with you in a moment, ma'am," she responds disinterestedly.

Quinn bristles and she narrows her eyes, slipping naturally back into the arrogant, no-nonsense persona that had served her so well in high school and in the publishing business. "I think those watches can wait. Unless you think that I should take my business elsewhere."

The woman—Marian, according to her nametag—purses her lips, offering a thin smile, before she quickly stores the watches back underneath the counter. "How can I help you?"

Quinn grins in triumph, but then her confidence falters for just a moment under the onslaught of sudden nerves, and she licks her lips. "I'm looking for…an engagement ring."

If Marian is surprised by the request, her face doesn't betray it, but her gaze does drop to Quinn's left hand where her own ring is winking up at them, and her eyebrows lift slightly. "Are you returning that one in exchange?" she asks, nodding down.

Quinn reflexively covers her hand, oddly protective of her ring. "No. I want to buy another one. For my fiancée to wear," she answers with a smile.

"I see. Men's rings or women's?" Marian requests neutrally.

"Women's," Quinn tells her unabashedly.

Marian only nods. "Right this way," she instructs, moving along the display cases until they're back at the engagement rings. Quinn has to admit that she's mildly impressed at how completely unconcerned the woman seems with the fact that she's shopping for a ring for another woman. "Do you have a particular style already in mind? Perhaps a similar setting to yours? May I?" she requests, holding out a hand to indicate that she'd like a closer look at Quinn's ring.

Quinn offers her hand for inspection, and Marian tilts her head as she studies it. "Very nice. Your fiancée has exquisite taste," she compliments, and Quinn flushes with pleasure. "I actually sold a ring very similar to this one just last month," she murmurs, glancing up at Quinn with a thoughtful frown as she relinquishes her hand. "Your fiancée doesn't happen to have her face splashed all over several Broadway billboards right now, does she?" she asks a bit warily.

Quinn's lips curl into a smirk. "She might. Did you spend four and half hours making the sale?"

Marian's complexion pales noticeably before she swallows, laughing nervously. "Well, as long as you're pleased with it," she attempts with a questioning lilt at the end.

"Very much so," Quinn admits.

"Then why don't I show you the rings that she seemed to be most attracted to while she was here. Perhaps we can expedite the process," Marian suggests hopefully.

Quinn flashes a smile. "I wouldn't count on that. But I would like to see the other rings that Rachel was looking at."

Marian sighs, nodding as she ducks under the counter to unlock the display. She removes two small trays and places them on the glass countertop. Quinn immediately sees the ring setting that she already had in mind, but she isn't about to tell Marian that and pass up the opportunity to look at all of this beautiful bling up close and in person. She might possibly still have a pretty wide materialistic streak in her.

Marian quickly points out two rings that Rachel had been drawn to but ultimately decided weren't right for Quinn. The first is a simple princess-cut solitaire, and the second is the one that Quinn has been eyeing—a round brilliant with two pear-shaped side stones. She silently rejoices at the revelation, but she stays calm and stoic on the outside as she continues to examine the cut, clarity, color, and carat weight of each diamond spread out before her. Her mother would be so proud.

Ultimately, it doesn't take four hours for Marian to make the sale. It takes a little less than two because Quinn questions everything from the accuracy of the carat size to the clarity to how quickly they can have it resized and whether or not that will ruin the setting. By the time they're finished, Quinn has a guarantee that she'll have the ring by Wednesday along with a small discount on the price. It's not much, but Quinn knows how to work a salesperson by demanding things that she can actually live without to make it seem like she's settling for what she really wants. She'd be happier walking out of the store with the ring in her pocket, but Rachel's odd ring-size makes that pretty much impossible.

The hardest part now is waiting.

Waiting—and not telling Rachel.

_xx_

Marian personally calls Quinn late Tuesday afternoon to tell her the ring is ready to be picked up, which is slightly annoying because she only has about forty minutes to get there before the store closes. She doesn't bother to change out of her track pants, grabbing her purse and hustling out of the apartment and uptown while everyone else is rushing to get home for the night. Marian doesn't comment on her mismatched outfit or short, messy ponytail when she enters the store, though Quinn can feel more than one set of judgmental eyes on her. She examines the ring thoroughly before she leaves, more than happy with her purchase.

She keeps a death grip on the box all the way back home, then darts around the apartment like a maniac as she tries to figure out where to hide it for the next twenty-four hours. She and Rachel might already be engaged, but she still wants to surprise her with the ring before she has to leave on her book tour. She's actually a little amazed that Rachel hasn't yet mentioned getting one for herself—Quinn pauses, considering for the first time that Rachel might not  _want_  to wear a ring.

"Well, screw that. She's wearing it," Quinn decides with fierce determination, despite those damned butterflies suddenly flittering around in a panic.

She pads to the kitchen with the box still in her hand, ducking down into the cabinet and depositing the box inside her Dutch oven. Despite Rachel's steadily improving kitchen skills over the last few years, she  _knows_  her ability hasn't progressed far enough to have her even attempting to touch that particular piece of cookware. The ring will only be hiding in there for a very short time anyway. She just has to keep Oliver from sneaking into the cabinet again. Honestly, she thinks they should just invest in some child-proof locks for their cat.

When Rachel finally comes home from the theatre, Quinn is calm and collected on the sofa where she's attempting to get some writing done. Rachel collapses into her side with a little whine. "I'm so tired," she complains, dropping her head onto Quinn's shoulder. "I could sleep for a week."

Quinn smiles and pats Rachel's thigh in sympathy. "You can rest tomorrow, but not all day. We have dinner reservations."

"We do?" Rachel asks sleepily, reaching down to cover Quinn's hand with her own and idly running the pad of her thumb back and forth over the diamond of Quinn's engagement ring. She's been doing that a lot, and Quinn turns her hand over to link their fingers together with a grin as she closes her laptop.

"We do. We're going to celebrate all of your glowing reviews and our engagement."

"Haven't we been celebrating those all week in private?" Rachel husks, turning her face to nuzzle against Quinn's neck.

"Which is probably why you're so exhausted," Quinn muses.

"Totally worth it," Rachel insists. "I just need to adjust to this schedule."

Quinn hums in agreement, knowing from past experience that Rachel typically does need at least two weeks to get accustomed to a new routine before her normal energy level returns—which, for Rachel, is borderline hyperactive. Leaning forward, she sets her laptop on the coffee table. "Come on, superstar. Let's get you to bed."

"Yes, please," Rachel agrees, allowing Quinn to pull her up from the sofa. She detours to the bathroom to complete an abbreviated version of her nightly cleansing ritual while Quinn turns down the bed, and when Rachel finally comes into the bedroom, she turns off the light and tucks herself into Quinn's side with a quietly mumbled, "G'night, baby."

Quinn sighs in contentment and closes her eyes, silently going over her plans for tomorrow as she drifts off to sleep.

_xx_

Their reservations at The River Café are for six-thirty, and the view of the skyline illuminating the twilight from the windows is absolutely amazing. Quinn probably would have suggested coming here even without the ring because they really haven't had the chance to share a nice, quiet dinner (that Quinn doesn't have to cook) since they'd gotten engaged, and they really do have a lot of things to celebrate. Rachel seems happy, despite grumbling a little about having to leave the apartment at all. They'd spent most of the day just relaxing—and other things not technically relaxing but still involving a bed—so this dinner really isn't an inconvenience at all.

Quinn can almost feel that little blue box burning right through the lining of her purse as they peruse their menus and place their orders. She debates about giving it to her now or waiting until dessert, but she's already waited all day and, frankly, her patience is just about gone. So when the waiter returns with their bottle of Chardonnay and pours them each a glass, Quinn reaches down and retrieves the box, holding it under the table with her left hand.

She lifts her wine glass with a soft smile and toasts, "To us."

Rachel smiles back at her, raising her own glass and gently touching it against Quinn's. "To us."

Quinn takes a quick sip, watching Rachel do the same over the rim of her glass as she slips her other hand onto the table and deposits the box between them.

Rachel sees it as she's putting her own glass back on the table, and Quinn sees her breath hitch slightly even as her brows furrow in mild confusion. "Quinn?" she questions uncertainly.

The corners of Quinn's lips tilt up. "Open it," she urges.

Rachel reaches out and takes the box between her fingers, sliding it closer to her body before she slowly lifts the lid and stares down into the box.

"I know it's a little anticlimactic at this point," Quinn admits quietly, nervously fiddling with the ring on her own finger, "but Rachel, you made me so happy when you asked me to be your wife, so now I'm asking you to be mine." Rachel's gaze flies back to hers then, and Quinn smiles. "Will you marry me and share my forever?" she asks, echoing Rachel's proposal back to her.

"You bought me a ring," Rachel whispers dumbly, glancing back down at the box again.

Quinn laughs a little, nodding. "Do you like it?"

"It's perfect," Rachel breathes reverently, finally freeing the ring from the box with trembling fingers. She looks up at Quinn with glistening eyes. "You didn't have to."

"Yes, I did," Quinn disagrees, reaching across the table to take Rachel's hand. "So will you?" she prompts again. "Will you make me even happier than I already am by wearing my ring?"

Rachel bites into her lower lip, stifling her smile. "I don't know. I'm not really big on jewelry," she lies.

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "Rachel," she warns playfully.

Rachel laughs, turning Quinn's hand over and pressing the ring into her palm. "You have to do it properly," she demands as she holds out her left hand with her fingers spread. "Put it on me."

Quinn shakes her head, holding the ring between her fingers. "You know, you haven't actually said  _yes_  yet," she reminds Rachel.

"But you said  _yes_  to me last week, and there are no take-backs," Rachel counters, wagging her fingers impatiently.

Quinn shrugs. "Actually, the salesclerk was kind enough to explain the return policy in great detail." She smirks at the memory. "For some reason, she thought you might be hard to please."

"Quinn," Rachel growls in annoyance.

"Rachel, sweetheart," Quinn purrs with a teasing grin. "Just say  _yes_."

Rachel softens under her gaze. "Yes, Quinn. Yes, I'll marry you and share your forever, and I will absolutely, very proudly, wear your ring. As soon as you actually put it on me," she adds in challenge.

Quinn smiles sweetly, taking Rachel's outstretched hand and carefully sliding the ring into place, relieved when it fits perfectly. She lifts Rachel's adorned hand to her lips and presses a brief kiss to the knuckles in front of the ring. "Thank you," she murmurs.

"You're thanking  _me_?" Rachel asks laughingly as she pulls her hand back to admire the diamond. "Quinn, this ring is absolutely gorgeous." She leans across the table, dropping her voice to a sexy murmur. "If you'd given this to me at home, I could have thanked you for it properly."

"You can thank me later," Quinn promises huskily. Right now, the smile on Rachel's face and the sparkle of the ring on her finger is all that Quinn really needs to make this moment absolutely perfect.


	18. Let the Christmas Spirit Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A little Christmas ficlet set after _Dust On Every Page._ Faberry's 3rd Christmas.

 

 

_Rocking around the Christmas Tree._   
_ Let the Christmas Spirit ring.  
Later we'll have some pumpkin pie  
and we'll do some caroling.  
~Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree_

_ xx _

 

Quinn has always loved Christmas. Some of her best childhood memories—and really, there are so very few good ones to choose from—are filled with red and green, twinkling lights, eggnog, and carols playing on the radio while she and her mother (and Frannie) danced around one another as they decorated the Christmas tree. Of course, those were the days when Judy Fabray still only enjoyed the occasional glass of wine with dinner instead of polishing off a bottle a day, Frannie was the annoying older sister who still mostly encouraged Quinn— _Lucy_ —to follow in her footsteps, and Quinn still wanted to be just like them. Russell was still strict but loving—silently watching his family from his chair as he nursed his Scotch and read the business section of his newspaper. Every dark undercurrent of tension and unhappiness that was gradually taking root in the Fabray household throughout the rest of the year would always seem to disappear under the bright lights and cheer of the holiday season.

Before everything went to hell, she and her mother and Frannie would enjoy a yearly tradition of tastefully decorating the house and taking special care with the tree, reminiscing over each and every ornament as they'd pulled it from the box and hung it on the tree. The Fabrays never went overboard with the commercialization of Christmas the way so many families seemed to do. There were never any tacky, inflatable Santa Clauses on the front yard or choreographed light displays flashing from dusk until dawn, and the gifts beneath the tree were never extravagant or excessive. Quinn wishes that she could say it was because they never lost sight of the true meaning of the holiday, but she knows their prudence was always more about the appearance of being a good, Christian family than actually living faithful and charitable lives three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. Every year, without fail, the entire family would don their brand new Christmas outfits to attend the midnight mass on Christmas Eve and pretend—for a few hours, at least—that they could be that warm and content together every day.

Quinn remembers holding onto her mother's hand as they'd gone shopping at the mall—eyes wide and smiling as she'd taken in the decorations and the music and the hustle and bustle of people all around her, weighted down with dozens of colorful shopping bags. As she'd gotten older, it had gotten increasingly less fun to battle the crowds, but that one afternoon of Christmas shopping with her mother had remained a tradition until the year she'd gotten pregnant. They'd tried it again the next year, but the whole ordeal had been nearly as painful as her labor with Beth.

Even with the discontent of her teenage years overshadowing her happy memories, Quinn never lost her love for the season. Most of the traditions that she'd shared with her family had been destroyed after her pregnancy, but she and her mother had still taken quiet joy in putting up the Christmas tree and pausing over every ornament through the last of her high school years until the end of college.

During her first year in New York, she'd been out at the beginning of November in search of the perfect Christmas tree. She would have loved to have bought a real one, but she'd been realistic enough about the size and location of her apartment to know that an artificial tree would be easier for her to transport and maintain. Rachel had tried to convince her to get the real tree if she really wanted it, insisting that she and Kurt and Santana would be happy to help Quinn juggle it from the lot to her building, up her stairs and into the one, tiny corner that it could possibly fit into, but Quinn had been firm in her decision, and the tree that she'd eventually found had been the perfect size for her small space.

So with her iPod shuffling through Christmas songs, she'd reverently opened up the box of ornaments that her mother had helped her carefully pack and placed each one on her tree as she'd lost herself to her memories. Rachel had been adorably put-out because Quinn hadn't asked her (or Santana or Kurt) to come over and help her decorate, and it had mostly tickled Quinn at the time that Rachel cared so much, but putting up her first Christmas tree in her very own apartment had been something that Quinn had wanted to do on her own—an odd sort of goodbye to past traditions and a clean slate for the future.

Her second year in the city had brought the first Christmas—well,  _Christmukkah_ —with Rachel as her girlfriend. They hadn't been living together at the time, so the holidays consisted of them decorating two separate apartments and two separate trees. Well—one and  _a half_ trees. Rachel's old place had been even smaller than Quinn's, so her tree was one of those little three-footers that fit on top of the coffee table, and even though Rachel had grown up celebrating a mashup of both Hanukkah and Christmas, her family's spiritual focus was always more on Hanukkah—with a lot of colorful Christmas decorations and an unsurprising love of any and every Christmas carol added in for good measure. The Berrys are a very musical family, after all.

Quinn honestly hadn't even thought twice before she'd pulled her tree out of the storage bag that she'd had jammed under her bed and erected it on the first Saturday after Thanksgiving. She'd had the day off work, and Rachel had two performances to keep her at the theatre, so it had seemed like the perfect time for Quinn to start her Christmas decorating. Rachel hadn't agreed, and she'd pouted for over an hour because Quinn hadn't waited for her to help, but at least Quinn was able to freely give into her urge to kiss the frown from her lips before she'd reminded Rachel that it gave them more time to simply enjoy the decorations—and  _other things_.

The third year found them finally cohabitating, but Rachel had been on tour with  _Les Mis_  all through November and December, so Quinn had been forced to undertake the decorating duties all alone once again. Rachel had been upset about being so far away, and Quinn had been sad that she was spending the holidays without her girlfriend, but when Rachel had flown home late on Christmas Eve for a two day break from performances, they'd both been incredibly happy to celebrate their reunion in front of an already decorated tree.

And this year—this year, they're together. In every way. And Quinn has the pleasure of sharing the entire holiday season with the woman she loves. The woman who is currently wearing a hideous Christmas sweater that rivals anything she'd ever favored in high school (but sadly without the very short skirt to distract Quinn's eyes with more appealing things) and a lopsided elf hat (that Quinn had only made a single joke about—so far) as she feverishly scribbles a list of everything that they're going to need to transform their apartment into The Very Berry (Fabray) Christmukkah Wonderland.

No lie. The list is titled that way.

"Do you think you might be going just a little bit overboard?" Quinn wonders from next to Rachel as she catches sight of  _Xmas themed bathroom set_  written on the list. She really doesn't want Santa staring at her from anywhere inside their bathroom. Just— _no_!

Rachel's pen pauses against the paper, and her gaze flies to Quinn. "I most certainly am not. This is our first holiday season cohabitating, Quinn!"

"Actually, it's our second," Quinn points out.

Rachel's eyes narrow. "You know very well what I mean. Last year I was unfairly deprived of the opportunity to fully merge our traditions and create a new one of our very own, and I'm not about to let it happen again. We are undertaking every, single festivity  _together_  this year, starting with a brand, new tree."

"We don't need a new tree," Quinn argues with a frown. "The one we have still looks fine." They'd tossed Rachel's tiny tabletop tree in favor of Quinn's prelit, six foot one when they'd moved in together.

"But it's artificial," Rachel reminds her. "I know that you'd really prefer a real tree, so that's what we're getting. We have the room for it. I think," she amends, pausing to press the top of her pen to the side of her mouth as she eyes the corner of their living room.

"Actually, I've gotten kind of fond of the artificial one," Quinn admits with a shrug. "It's nice to be able to put it up earlier, and it's a heck of a lot easier to clean up after." It's true that she used to love the smell and feel of a real tree when she'd been younger, but she can also remember how her mother had to constantly vacuum up those shedding pine needles and Russell had cursed under his breath every time she'd asked him to fill the stand with fresh water. "And can you imagine what Ollie would do to it?" Quinn adds with a raised brow, glancing at their not-so-innocent cat who is currently perched on the back of their sofa with wide, curious eyes trained on the bell at the tip of Rachel's hat. "I'm not sure I even trust him with the tree we already have, but I definitely don't think we should be tempting him with real branches to climb all over."

"He might surprise us," Rachel defends.

Quinn raises a skeptical brow. "Yeah. With the tree knocked over and the ornaments broken on the floor."

Rachel glances at the cat that she'd rescued from the cold—he looks to be about five seconds from flinging himself at her hat, complete with swishing tail and wiggling backside—and sighs. "I suppose it would be wise to err on the side of caution until we see how well he behaves."

As if on cue, Oliver pounces forward with one paw extended and snags the bell on the tip of the hat. Rachel quickly presses a hand to head to secure her accessory and shifts away from him, determinedly adjusting the hat to keep it out of his reach, and Quinn laughs. "I think you mean  _mis_ behaves."

Rachel meets Quinn's amused gaze with a pout. "I guess the new tree is a definite  _no_."

"So is the bathroom set," Quinn informs her, leaning over to tap the list in Rachel's lap.

Rachel frowns in confusion, and her eyebrows furrow adorably. "Oliver can't do much damage to that."

"He can if I douse it in catnip and lock him in the bathroom with it."

Rachel gasps, eye's widening. "Quinn!" she chastises. "I thought you loved Christmas."

"I do. And I will happily help you deck every hall in this apartment, but the bathroom is off limits," she insists. "There will be absolutely no Santas, reindeers, or snowmen staring at me while I shower." Never mind doing her other private business.

Rachel's frown curls into teasing smile. "What about elves?" she asks cheekily.

Quinn chuckles. "Just the one," she concedes, playfully tugging at Rachel's hat. "And only if she showers  _with_  me."

"I believe that's an acceptable compromise," Rachel tells her with a grin, closing the distance between them until she can brush a soft, coffee-flavored kiss across Quinn's lips, but before Quinn can even begin to properly enjoy the contact, her girlfriend is pulling away with determined eyes and the list clutched in her hands. "Now, let's get moving," she commands, bouncing up from the sofa. "We have a very full schedule of merry-making ahead of us."

"And you'll be checking off your Christmas list," Quinn muses with a smirk.

Rachel bends down, close to Quinn's face. "Just call me Santa, baby," she husks.

Quinn watches Rachel's lips as they form the words, leaning in ever so slightly. "You're wearing the wrong hat for that," she drawls evenly, delighting in Rachel's affronted expression.

"You are so going on the naughty list," Rachel warns as she lightly slaps Quinn's knee.

"I'll show you just how naughty I can be later," Quinn promises, reaching out to tug on the hem of Rachel's very ugly Christmas sweater. It will look so much better on the floor of their bedroom—or in the trash bin—though she might let Rachel keep the hat on.

Rachel bites her lip thoughtfully. "Will I have to spank you?"

"You might," Quinn purrs.

Rachel's eyelids flutter slightly, and she groans under her breath. "Suddenly, decorating is the farthest thing from my mind."

"But we have a full schedule of merry-making ahead of us," Quinn reminds her in amusement as she pushes up from the sofa. She tugs the list out of Rachel's hands and gives it a cursory glance, humming softly before she tosses it onto the cushions. "We won't be needing that."

"Quinn!" Rachel huffs, placing her hands on her hips.

Quinn laughs and rolls her eyes, pulling Rachel closer. "I think we can manage to make this Christmukkah pretty perfect without that list."

"But…"

"Rachel, we've got this," Quinn interrupts. Decorating their apartment will be so much more fun without a list or a schedule. She leans in and captures her girlfriend's lips in a sweet kiss before she pulls back with a smile, and then she gets the pleasure of watching Rachel's face take on that sexy, determined look that she loves so much.

"We've got this," Rachel repeats with a nod.

And they do. The tree and ornaments are shoved underneath the bed in the second bedroom. Quinn is very skilled at compact packing—a talent that she'd honed back in high school under less than ideal circumstances. Of course, Oliver pads into the bedroom when he hears the crinkling of the tree bag as Quinn and Rachel pull it out from underneath the bed, and from that moment on, he makes a silent cat vow to investigate every branch, needle, and light on it. Quinn shoos him out of the bag twice and Rachel tries a third time before they both give up and drag the entire bag—Oliver included—into the living room where the drop it onto the floor.

Rachel turns on the Christmukkah playlist that she'd made (of course) for the occasion, and then they rearrange the chair and ottoman enough to make a space in the corner before Quinn helps Rachel heave the bottom section of the tree into the stand. Quinn moves to put up the middle section, but Rachel stops her.

"We should fluff up the branches first," she suggests.

"Or we could fluff them all after the tree is up." After all, that's the way Quinn has done it in the past.

"It will be easier this way," Rachel insists.

"No, it won't," Quinn argues. "It's easier once you see the whole thing together. Trust me."

Rachel frowns. "But this section is so flat right now." She tugs at a few of the branches, spreading them apart as she continues to eye it critically. .

"It's flat so I could fit it under the bed," Quinn points out.

"Just let me fix the bottom," Rachel pleads. "Then we can see exactly how far from the wall it should be."

Quinn sighs, leaning the middle section she's been holding against the side of the sofa. "Fine," she concedes, watching as Rachel's mouth curve into a triumphant smile before she busies herself with artfully arranging the lower branches. Quinn moves to help her, but Oliver is already sneaking underneath the base of the tree and poking his head up into it. "Oh, no you don't," she warns him, reaching down to drag him back. She picks him up in her arms and catches his mischievous green eyes. "There will be no climbing the tree," she tells him strictly.

Rachel giggles. "He's only curious, Quinn. It's his first Christmas." Her hands still on the branches, and she gasps. "Oh. We have to get him an ornament!" she exclaims with wide eyes. "Do you think we can find one that says  _Kitty's first Christmukkah_?"

Quinn arches her eyebrow. "If anyone can, it's you," she considers, depositing Oliver back onto the sofa—where he doesn't stay.

Pleased with that answer, Rachel turns her attention back to fluffing the branches while Quinn alternates between helping her and discouraging Oliver's more rambunctious  _curiosity_. Eventually, Rachel is satisfied with the bottom of the tree, but then they end up moving it back and forth six times before Rachel is pleased with its position in the room. They finally attach the middle section, and Quinn doesn't even argue when Rachel begins fluffing the branches before Quinn can put on the top.

Once the tree itself is up and lit, they pull out the box of ornaments—another treasure chest for Oliver to explore—and Quinn quickly loses herself in the joy of sharing this experience with Rachel. Even shooing Oliver away from the tree every five minutes doesn't dampen Quinn's happiness as she and Rachel sing carols and unpack every ornament, hanging them on the tree as they tell one another stories of Christmases and Hanukkahs past that they hadn't been able share last year.

Quinn gets a little teary when she pulls out the glass heart engraved with the words  _my heart comes home for Christmas_  that Rachel had brought her last year when she'd come back from Houston on Christmas Eve. Rachel smiles knowingly and leans into her side, kissing Quinn's cheek before they hang it on the tree together. On a high branch—where Oliver can't get to it.

Hopefully.

When he knocks the plastic mouse hanging from a Santa hat off a low branch—the one that Mercedes had gotten Quinn sophomore year to encourage her to hang in there—Quinn decides that maybe they should invest in a water bottle, but even that doesn't really bother Quinn. She and Rachel don't need a list, or even the decorations, or a well-behaved cat to make their Christmukkah perfect. All they need is each other.

Much later, after Oliver is worn out from all the excitement, Quinn cuddles close to Rachel on the sofa while the Christmas music plays in the background and they admire their finished tree—decorated with love and twinkling with hundreds of tiny lights. Rachel turns in her arms and presses a warm kiss to Quinn's lips. "Merry Christmas, baby," she murmurs.

Quinn smiles and pulls her closer. "Happy Hanukkah, Rach."

It's the perfect start to the holiday season—and the many holiday seasons to come.


	19. My Finest Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A drabble set sometime after the ficlet _Hungry For the Meeting_.

_I will give you my finest hour;_  
_The one I spent watching you shower._   
_~Picture This, Blondie_

_xx_

**  
** The water has long since run cold by the time they finish their shower. Rachel put forth a very convincing argument for water conservation, though Quinn had resisted right up until the moment that Rachel stopped talking and started using her mouth in far more persuasive ways. Quinn thoroughly enjoyed the terms of her surrender.

She’s currently attempting to towel dry the drops of moisture that still cling to her skin despite Rachel’s best efforts to impede her progress with hands and lips.  “I’m helping,” Rachel insists with a teasing grin, and Quinn barely contains an undignified snort.

“You’d help me right back into that shower if I let you have your way,” Quinn accuses with an indulgent smile.

Rachel’s grin grows wicked.  “I did have my way, thank you very much,” she purrs before dipping her head to trail her tongue over a few beads of water on Quinn’s naked shoulder, making Quinn shiver.  Rachel lifts her mouth to Quinn’s ear. “But I’d actually prefer to help you into the bed now.”    

Quinn reaches down to deliver a playful slap to Rachel’s ass. “Your dads will be back soon.”  They’d only run out to the local grocery store to pick up a few extra things for the weekend since this visit had been a spur of the moment decision—much like taking advantage of the decadent shower in the guest bathroom for activities that were decidedly dirty.  “And this house doesn’t have any soundproofing.”

“We’ve been living together for two years, Quinn,” Rachel reminds her, even though she does reluctantly release Quinn before reaching for her own fuzzy, pink towel.  “I think they know we have sex.”

“Knowing is different than hearing,” Quinn points out with an arched brow as she loosely wraps the towel around her body.   “And anyway,” she places her hand on the doorknob and begins to pull the door open, “it might be considered rude to come visit them and then lock ourselves away in their guest bedroom so we can f—”  Quinn’s entire body jerks when her eyes take in the blur of movement out in the hallway. “—uck!” she shouts, slamming the door closed again with wide eyes and a racing heart.

Rachel is at her side in an instant. “Quinn?  What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry to startle you, girls,” Hiram’s muffled voice says through the door.  “I just came up to let you know that your dad and I picked up some Chinese on the way home, and dinner is ready whenever you are. It sounded like you were finally done with,” and there’s a dramatic pause before, “your _shower_ ,” is said with some amusement.

Quinn closes her eyes in embarrassment, thunking her forehead against the door, and she feels Rachel’s body shift next to her.  “Um...yeah...Daddy...we’ll be down soon.  Thanks.”

“Oh, there’s no rush. Take your time,” he says jovially before the sound of footsteps sound away from the door.

When Quinn dares to open her eyes again, she glances at Rachel and takes a small amount of relief in the fact that Rachel’s cheeks are nearly as pink as her towel.  “So, yeah, they definitely know we have sex,” Rachel muses with a chagrined smile.

Quinn puffs out a breath. “I suppose hearing is better than seeing,” she reasons in a lame attempt to make herself feel better.

Rachel giggles, leaning over to press a kiss to Quinn’s shoulder. “I don’t know. You do look very fetching in that towel.” A hand slips under said towel and up the back of her thigh.

“Don’t start,” Quinn warns, biting back a laugh as she swats Rachel’s hand away. “Dinner with your dads is going to be awkward enough already.”  She cracks open the door and peeks out into the hallway to make certain that the coast is clear. It is.

“But you’re so cute when you get embarrassed about sex,” Rachel coos.

Quinn hums as she lets the door swing open all the way. “Well, considering what your dads probably heard when they came home, I’m sure they’ll make sure you find me extremely _cute_ all weekend.”

Rachel’s smile slips slightly as she remembers which one of them was actually more vocal and the things that had been screamed in the throes of passion—things doting fathers wouldn’t be eager to hear from the mouth of their precious baby girl. “Oh,” she breathes before clearing her throat. “I...I’m sure my dads will behave themselves.  We can just pretend it never happened.”

“Baby girl?” Leroy shouts from downstairs. “I know Daddy said to take your time, but if you and Quinn are planning an encore, let us know so we can put dinner in the fridge.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn mutters to a blushing Rachel, “it’ll be just like it never happened.” **  
**


	20. With Every Broken Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A drabble to build a bridge between canon and fanon. A 'missing scene' from the flashbacks in _Diamonds Along the Way._

_I saw so many places, the things that I did._  
_With every broken bone, I swear I lived._  
_~I Lived, One Republic_

_xx_

Everything is red and white and reverberating with music. Her mind tries to piece together the where and the why—she’s in the high school auditorium, but she doesn’t remember how she got there or when. She’s certain that she remembers graduating from McKinley a long time ago and yet it feels like she’s never left—like nothing else exists in her life outside of this place. It’s almost like she’s been stuck in some weird timewarp that makes it impossible for her to place her disjointed memories of the last seven years onto a timeline with any real accuracy. The faces around her are achingly familiar—people she knows deep in her bones that she hasn’t seen or spoken with in years. Is that Matt Rutherford? And when did Sue Sylvester become the vice president of the United States? She’s pretty damned certain that she should remember voting against her. And hadn’t Rachel been pregnant, like, five minutes ago? Where’s the baby? Was it a boy or a girl? Why doesn’t she know that?  And why can’t she remember Rachel’s wedding to Jesse St. James?

Wait.

Rachel was supposed to marry Finn Hudson, wasn’t she?  Quinn had been on her way…

Quinn reaches for answers that are quickly slipping away as the faces around her blur and her vision narrows on a memorial plaque. For Finn.

Because Finn is dead—but she can’t remember how he died. Was there an accident?

Quinn remembers the screech of brakes and the crunch of metal—then nothing.  

No. No, that’s wrong. She can’t be remembering _Finn’s_ accident. She’s remembering _hers_.

Moments in her life that had felt undeniably solid only seconds ago—graduation, a strange visit to Rachel’s loft in New York, half a night of drunken sex with Santana, inexplicably dating that guy from _Gossip Girl_ before an attempt at settling with Puck—suddenly shift and crumble into nonsense. She feels an all too familiar twist of terror coil deep in her belly as she struggles to pull together the pieces of a life that has gone shockingly, frighteningly blank beyond the sound of shattering glass and the pain of shattering bones.

A surge of adrenaline rushes through her body, causing her heart to pound in her ears as she pries her heavy, sticky eyes open. There’s a bright light casting an ethereal glow around a large, blurred form, and Quinn blinks once, twice, three times before the haze clears enough for her to recognize the person hovering over her.

“Finn?” she rasps, squinting her eyes in an attempt to make his face a little clearer, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into a sad, lopsided grin.

“Hey.”

“Am I dead?” she asks uncertainly.

Finn’s face crumples into an expression of relief, and he shakes his head. “You scared everyone pretty good though,” he admits lifting a nervous hand to rub along the back of his neck. “The doctors say you’re gonna be okay. It’s been a couple of days since,” he swallows, dropping his hand into his lap and looking away, “everything happened. They’re still keeping you pretty drugged up.” He offers her another shaky smile. “Must be strong, too. I guess you’ve been saying some weird stuff every time you wake up.”

Quinn frowns as little bits of fractured memories— _real ones_ —begin to slip into the spaces left by the morphine-induced hallucinations that have muddled her brain. “Like what?” she asks cautiously, feeling a trickle of apprehension at what might have slipped out of her mouth without her knowledge.

Finn chuckles, shrugging.  “Brittany said you asked her how she liked MIT, and then you congratulated her and Santana on their marriage.”  His smile dims then, and he shrugs again. “You told Puck he looked good in uniform, and you offered to give Kurt an egg…whatever that means.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” Quinn mutters—the frayed images from her dream are already falling away from her, lost to the waking world the way individual drops of rain are lost to the rivers and lakes and oceans.

“Um, Rachel’s just down in the cafeteria getting some coffee. Do you think you’re gonna stay awake for a while?” Finn asks hopefully. “She’s been by to visit a few times, but you were always pretty out of it. If you pass out again after I got to talk to you, I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

Quinn isn’t sure what to answer. Her mind feels thick and fuzzy, like it’s filled with cotton (and frankly, so does her mouth), and her body feels like it’s weighed down into the mattress. And a steady, throbbing ache is already beginning to chase away the morphine. She honestly can’t say if she’s completely awake or not. She barely remembers any of her visitors, though she knows now that she’d woken up to find her mother at her bedside several times, and the stuffed mouse on her table was a gift from Brittany, and, “You and Rachel aren’t married,” she remembers, feeling that same relief all over again that she’d experienced when Rachel had first told her. She’d been sitting right there—right where Finn is sitting now—holding Quinn’s hand and blaming herself for Quinn’s accident.        

Finn frowns, sagging lower in his seat. “No. It…we were waiting for you,” he tells her with a catch in his voice.  “And now, Rachel…she thinks we should wait until we’re out of school,” he grumbles before he shakes his head again. “But, I mean, I guess we’ve got time, right?”

Quinn nods her head slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ve got time,” she agrees, feeling an odd sense of relief in that simple truth. She lets go of the lingering threads of her dream and smiles. “I think I’d like to see Rachel now,” she tells him, silently vowing not to waste the time she’s been given.


	21. Sometimes I'm Easily Fooled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet set before _Forget the Wrong That I've Done._

_Sometimes I’m easily fooled._  
_I take a painful step, and I get knocked back two._  
_I do all I can, and it’s all I can do, but I’m true._  
_~True, Concrete Blonde_

_xx_

Rachel doesn’t expect to find her wife still awake when she gets home from her evening performance. While Quinn is finally past the stage of her pregnancy that found her falling asleep at the drop of a hat—and in the middle of a conversation—she’s also long past the need to wait up for Rachel after every show. Rachel might be worried that the honeymoon is well and truly over, or that the magic has gone out of their marriage, if Quinn hadn’t also raced into the stage of her pregnancy that features the enthusiastic return of her libido. She may not be waiting up for Rachel at night, but she’s certainly been waking her up bright and early every morning and giving her a very vigorous workout. Rachel hasn’t needed to use her elliptical in a month.

Quinn claims that she wasn’t like this the first time, but Rachel thinks that she just didn’t have a suitable outlet to satisfy her needs. Rachel can’t really say that she’s sorry about that. Even the thought of a teenaged Quinn turning to Noah Puckerman (or  _anyone_ else) for any of this makes her want to punch something—something six-foot tall, Jewish, and abnormally attached to mohawks as an acceptable hairstyle.

Obviously, Rachel can’t erase the past, but she’s going to try her damnedest to make it disappear into the shadow of their present. So when Quinn pokes her head out of the second bedroom with a come-hither smile and says, “Hey, sweetie, I’ve been waiting for you,” Rachel expects to be spending the rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning making that present just a little brighter.

She tosses her jacket across the back of the chair—spring hasn’t quite managed to chase away the winter temperatures just yet—dodges Oliver’s nightly attempt to con another meal out of her, and greets her wife with a kiss. Quinn leans into her, parting her lips as she loops her arms over Rachel’s shoulders, and Rachel slips her own arms around Quinn’s waist, pulling her even closer. She loves the way it feels—the way the firm curve of her wife’s belly presses into hers until she can feel the evidence of their baby, safe and warm and protected between them both. There are moments when it still terrifies her, but she wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Rachel hums contentedly as she leans back with a smile. “You stayed up late,” she points out needlessly. “Are you already working on a new project?”

Quinn’s eyebrow arches slightly. “You mean besides our daughter?” she teases.

“Or son,” Rachel amends with a grin. They won’t know the baby’s gender until their next appointment in two weeks, assuming the little guy (or girl) cooperates. Until then, they’re having fun contradicting each other.

Quinn shakes her head, but the happy smile doesn’t leave her face. It does, however, take on a tiny edge of calculation that Rachel has grown to recognize. “Actually, I do have something of a new project,” Quinn admits, dropping her arms from Rachel’s shoulders and taking a single step back. “I was hoping to get your opinion on it.” She trails her right hand along Rachel’s arm until her fingers curl around Rachel’s, and then she’s stepping back into the spare room with a hopeful expression, pulling Rachel in after her.

Rachel freezes when she enters the room, frowning at the sight of it. There are several cardboard boxes on the floor, and the closet is thrown open. Rachel recognizes some of her clothes thrown across the bed along with some of Quinn’s business suits that she’d finally agreed to move out of their bedroom closet after she’d resigned from her position and started working part-time from home. The boxes are half filled with clothes and books that have been stripped off the overflowing bookshelves that line the wall.   

“What are you doing?” Rachel gasps.

That eyebrow arches again. “Cleaning out the room,” Quinn answers slowly, as if Rachel should have worked this out already.

Rachel eyes the boxes suspiciously.  “Did you lift those?” she demands with a frown, pointing at the offending boxes. “By yourself? When I wasn’t here?”

Quinn rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, making the slight bump beneath her shirt seem even more pronounced.  “The boxes were empty when I lifted them. They didn’t even weigh three pounds.”

Rachel crosses her own arms.  “Quinn, this couldn’t have waited until I was home?”

“I’m fine, Rach,” Quinn reassures her with an indulgent shake of her head. “And I needed to get started.”

Rachel’s brows furrow in confusion. “We still have five months before we’d need to turn this into a nursery.”  More if they set up the crib in their bedroom for a few months. “And anyway, are we not still looking for a bigger place? Maybe something with a third bedroom?” she adds hopefully. She’s doesn’t think they can afford Tribeca or the Upper East Side just yet, as much as she wishes they could, but with a child on the way, they both know they’re going to outgrow this apartment sooner rather than later.  

“No, we’re still looking,” Quinn confirms before she darts her gaze away and bites into her lower lip. “But…we might not have that much time.”

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, I’m pretty sure I was there for the conception,” Rachel jokes. “Doctor Klein said August.”

“No, the baby is still due in August,” Quinn agrees. “But…well…you know that my mother is trying to be extra supportive.” The _this time_ is left unsaid, but Rachel can still hear it in her wife’s voice, and she nods. Quinn flashes a wide smile and folds her hands together in front of her belly. “So she’s coming to stay with us,” she announces.  

Rachel’s eyes widen as she processes the unexpected news. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s,” she pauses, pursing her lips together for a moment, “that’s fine,” she assures Quinn with a smile of her own—if it’s a bit forced, she’s certain Quinn will let it slide. “It will be nice to have Judy visit for a week or two,” she decides with a firm nod. No wonder Quinn is straightening up the room. The last time Judy was here, she’d made more than one comment about their tendency to use this room as a pack-rat’s haven. They really do need to declutter with a baby on the way.

Quinn puffs out a breath, chewing on the corner of her lip in the way she does when she’s nervous about something. “How about six months?” she finally asks.

Rachel’s smile disappears. “Until she visits?”

“That she’ll be staying,” Quinn corrects before rushing to add, “We had a really long talk this afternoon, and she really wants to be here and involved. And I…I want her to be.” She reaches out to clasp Rachel’s hands. “We have so much to do before the baby comes, Rach, and you’ve been so busy with your show. Having Mom here will be such a big help to me.”

“Can’t she help from a nice hotel?” Rachel squeaks out, trying to keep her panic at bay. “Or an apartment of her own?”

Quinn lets go of Rachel’s hands with a frown. “Rachel Berry Fabray, are you trying to get rid of my mother?”

“No, of course not,” Rachel denies, reaching for Quinn again. “I just…this room is really close to our bedroom, Quinn. And six months is a really long time.”  _Really long._

“I think my mother knows we have sex,” Quinn points out with a smirk, echoing the words that Rachel herself has said about her fathers (and all of their friends) on more than one occasion. But this is  _Judy Fabray_  they’re talking about. Rachel is quite certain the woman has convinced herself that they do not, in fact, have sex.

“Knowing is different than hearing,” Rachel tosses back with a scowl, pushing down her temper. Because Quinn is pregnant. And emotional. And out of her baby-addled mind! “I just…I can’t believe you would invite your mother to live with us without asking me first.”

Quinn snickers, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “And I can’t believe you don’t know what day it is.”

Rachel frowns in confusion, caught off guard by Quinn’s sudden change of tone. “It’s Saturday,” she responds automatically.

Quinn lifts her hand and cups Rachel’s cheek, smiling at her fondly. “April 1st.”

Rachel’s frown deepens, and her eyes skitter to the little clock that resides on Quinn’s desk—it’s flashing 11:48 and, therefore, technically still April Fools' Day—before narrowing on her wife. “Judy isn’t coming to stay with us, is she?”

“Oh, she is,” Quinn laughs, patting Rachel’s cheek before letting go. “For a visit. Even I wouldn’t tackle cleaning out this room just to play an April Fools' prank on you.”

Rachel huffs, feeling her face heat in embarrassment at falling for Quinn’s prank. Again! “You are so evil! After I’ve been nothing but wonderful to you.”

“Oh, but sweetie,” Quinn coos, wrapping her arms around Rachel, “you’re just too easy.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Rachel grumbles, helpless to keep herself from melting into Quinn’s body.

Quinn sighs and brushes a soft kiss across Rachel’s lips. “I am. I really, really am.”

Rachel hums in agreement, skittering her fingers across Quinn’s belly. Despite her wife’s frustrating habit of playing her for a fool every year, she’s pretty damned lucky too.


	22. Acceptance Is the Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Short ficlet set in the spring before _Dust On Every Page_ and prompted by an answer I gave on Tumblr about a fabedroom activity that Quinn might request on her birthday:
> 
> _"... or the time Quinn challenged Rachel to serenade her with a pre-planned playlist while she teased her to distraction. Rachel never even made it through the first song."_

_Acceptance is the key to be,_  
_To be truly free.  
_ _~Unconditionally, Katy Perry_

_  
xx_

Rachel's eyes dance over the list that Quinn had given her. " _This_  is what you want for your birthday?" she asks with an amused smile. They'd already had a lovely dinner at a restaurant of Quinn's choosing—Rachel's cooking skills haven't improved quite enough to risk burning dinner on Quinn's birthday—and now it's time for dessert.

Quinn's grin is decidedly more wicked when she nods and hums her assent. "Think you can manage it?" she challenges.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Child's play," she declares haughtily, briefly glancing over the list one more time before she tosses it aside. Every song written on the paper in Quinn's elegant handwriting is well within Rachel's wheelhouse. She can sing them in her sleep. Serenading Quinn as foreplay to birthday sex is the easiest gift she's ever been asked to give.

Quinn's eyes are sparkling when Rachel lightly trails the backs of her fingers over her cheek and leans forward to brush her lips over Quinn's smiling mouth. Quinn curls her hand over the nape of Rachel's neck and deepens the kiss, catching Rachel's lower lip between her teeth and nipping at it before she chases the sting away with her tongue. Rachel practically purrs in approval, happily falling into the kiss as the familiar ripples of desire stir in her blood, but all too soon, Quinn pulls back with a sexy grin firmly in place.

"I don't hear any singing," she teases.

A laughing huff slips past Rachel's lips. "My mouth was otherwise occupied."

"Excuses, excuses," Quinn trills, taking a single step back and hooking one finger into the vee of Rachel's blouse where the top button is fastened to preserve her modesty. "I wanna hear you sing for me," she husks, giving a gentle tug to the button, "and only me."

Rachel suppresses the moan that builds in her chest at Quinn's words, instead clearing her throat to battle the sudden dryness there. Quinn's lips twitch into a knowing smirk as her fingers continue to play with that button.

Quinn had started her list with a little Katy Perry—she's always been one of Rachel's go-to artists—so Rachel takes a breath and begins her birthday serenade. She doesn't need any inspiration beyond her gorgeous girlfriend to infuse every word with the love she feels for Quinn.

" _Oh no, did I get too close oh?  
Oh, did I almost see what's really on the inside?"_

Rachel's eye widen slightly when Quinn undoes that button, but she doesn't miss a beat.

" _All your insecurities."_

Another button comes undone, and Quinn's fingers slip inside her blouse to trace little heart shapes over Rachel's skin. All the while, Quinn's gaze remains intense on hers.  
  
" _All the dirty laundry_  
_Never made me blink one time."_

Quinn's eyelids flutter, and she sighs happily as she moves closer to Rachel, setting her free hand on Rachel's waist.

" _Unconditional, unconditionally.  
I will love you unconditionally."_

Quinn's lips graze Rachel's cheek, and those fingers playing at her chest move down to open another button. Rachel's indrawn breath is possibly just a little more audible than she intends it to be, but she'll be damned if she lets Quinn distract her from her performance.

" _There is no fear now._  
_Let go and just be free._  
 _I will love you unconditionally."_

Quinn moves then, stepping around Rachel while her hand continues to work open every button. Her other hand brushes Rachel's hair off one shoulder before slipping down to rest on Rachel's belly; fingertips sneaking under the waistband of her slacks.

Rachel's own hands reach back to clutch at Quinn's thighs.

" _Come just as you are to me.  
Don't need apologies._

With her buttons completely undone, Quinn shifts behind her, trailing her fingers back up over Rachel's skin and pausing to circle her lace covered breasts.

" _Know that you are unworthy."_

Quinn's touch disappears from her breast as she shifts again—Rachel can feel her body pressed fully against the left side of her back—and the fingers of her left hand that have been teasing at her belly find the button of her slacks. Quinn pulls the material of Rachel's blouse away from her shoulder with her right hand and replaces it with her heated mouth, making Rachel shiver and stutter the next line of the song out of sync.

" _I..I''ll...take your bad days with your good.  
Walk through this storm I would."_

The button of her slacks is suddenly undone, and Quinn's fingers plunge lower.

" _I'd do it all because I love you."_

Quinn's mouth is hot against Rachel's neck, and her right hand returns to cup the side of Rachel's breast through her bra.

"God, I love you," Rachel groans instead of singing. She can feel the press of Quinn's smile at her pulse point, and she takes another breath, stubbornly pushing out the chorus instead of rocking her hips into Quinn's hand the way she desperately wants.

" _Unconditional, unconditionally.  
I will love you unconditionally."_

Rachel drags in a shaky breath as Quinn's fingers skillfully tease the sensitive flesh between her legs.

" _There is...no fear now."_

Another breath.

A fingernail dragging over her nipple.

A tongue tracing her earlobe.

" _L-let go...oh,"_  those damned fingers, " _just be free."_

Rachel presses her own hands over Quinn's where they're wreaking havoc on her body. She's hopelessly lost the tempo of the song, but the cadence of Quinn's touch is so much stronger.

" _I will love you…oh, Quinn...un...uncondition...ah...ly."_

"I don't remember my name in this song," Quinn whispers hotly against her ear.

"You're cheating," Rachel accuses breathlessly, unable to keep her hips from rocking in time with Quinn's insistent rhythm.

"No," Quinn counters sweetly. "I'm enjoying my birthday present. Now keep singing." She presses a gentle kiss to Rachel's cheek. "Please."

Rachel can barely catch her breath, but she nods as she leans into Quinn's body, realizing that  _she's_  Quinn's birthday present and Quinn already has her unwrapped.

" _So open up your heart and just let it begin,"_  Rachel manages to chant (more-or-less) melodically.  
" _Open up your heart and just let it begin."_

The pace of Quinn's fingers increases, rubbing relentless circles against Rachel's clit, while her mouth plays against Rachel's neck and shoulder, undoubtedly leaving marks on her skin. Rachel's makeup artist is going to be pissed.

" _Oh...open up your heart and just let it begin.  
Ooh...pen up your heart."_

Rachel can feel her body racing closer to its release. Quinn knows exactly how and where to touch her, and it's embarrassingly obvious to Rachel now that Quinn never intended to let her get past the first song on that list. She's surprisingly okay with this.

" _Acceptance is the key to...to be...  
To be truly free…"_

Rachel barely manages to pant, " _Will you...do...ooo...the same for...m...me?"_

"Yes," Quinn answers, moving her fingers in just the right way.

"Unnngh!"

The rest of the song is lost in a very different kind of melody as Rachel comes undone. Quinn shifts behind her, a strong arm holding her upright, taking most of her weight against her own body as Rachel's knees buckle. Those talented fingers help her ride out her orgasm before finally stilling and reluctantly slipping out from between Rachel's legs.

Quinn holds Rachel close while she catches her breath and the strength begins to return to her legs. "That was beautiful," Quinn murmurs appreciatively. "Thank you."

Rachel chuckles softly. "I didn't even finish."

Quinn laughs outright, hugging Rachel from behind. "You finished spectacularly, sweetheart. I think it's just become my favorite performance ever."

Rachel reaches down to weakly slap Quinn's thigh before managing to turn in her arms enough to kiss her lovingly. "Give me five minutes, and I promise I'll top it."

Quinn's smile is radiant.

"Happy birthday to me."


	23. An Angel Growing Peacefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Mother's Day ficlet by request. Set about a week before _Forget The Wrong That I've Done_.

_Oh Capri, she's a beauty_  
_There is an angel growing peacefully.  
_ _~Capri, Colbie Caillat_

_xx_

In her dreams, kittens dance across mountains of ice cream. This seems perfectly normal and logical to her. She watches them with a smile, there but not there. At some point the ice cream melts away and one of the kittens transforms into Ollie. He's kneading insistently at her stomach and yowling—that one meow that screams  _feed me, human_.

Quinn stirs, pulled from her sleep just enough to flop a hand onto her stomach in an attempt to shoo the cat away, but instead of fur, she feels only the firm swell of her cotton covered belly. Beneath her palm, the gentle flutters continue and her conscious mind realizes that her daughter is already awake and attempting to get her attention. Her lips curve beatifically, and she gently stretches as she shifts on the mattress, feeling the warmth of the sun streaming in through the window. Her eyes open to a bright Sunday morning, and she rubs a soothing circle on her belly as she rolls her head on the pillow, blurry gaze searching out her wife.

She frowns when she sees that the other side of the bed is empty, only wrinkled sheets where Rachel should be. The clock on the nightstand tells her that it's still early—earlier that Rachel usually gets up on a Sunday, especially after her late evening show on Saturday—but she can hear Oliver's eager demands for attention filling the apartment, and, more importantly, she catches the faint scent of something resembling a cooking attempt in the air.

Quinn pushes up on her elbows, ungracefully sitting up against the headboard and reaching for her glasses with the intent of finding out what Rachel is up to. She's been attempting to do more of the cooking ever since Quinn got pregnant, and while she's definitely improved over the years, there are still enough occasional kitchen disasters to make Quinn wary of leaving her alone for too long. But before she can even put her feet on the floor, Rachel is slipping through the bedroom door with a tray in her hands and wearing an oversized t-shirt that barely covers anything of importance.

"Oh, you're already awake," she notes with a slight pout as she shuffles to the bed, juggling the tray as she sits down on the edge next to Quinn. The t-shirt rides up, exposing barely there red panties and an abundance of glorious tan skin. "I was really hoping to be able to wake you up with kisses," she adds with a grin before carefully leaning over to brush a gentle kiss over Quinn's lips.

Quinn hums in approval, raising a hand to cup Rachel's cheek as two distinctly different appetites awaken inside her. Rachel pulls away, smiling as she offers the tray to Quinn, and Quinn pats down the sheets while Rachel moves to place the tray over her lap. A cup of coffee—decaffeinated, of course—and a plate of French toast (that Rachel has finally mastered) accented by strawberries and real bacon await her, and she's just about to ask what the occasion is when Rachel murmurs, "Happy Mother's Day, baby."

Quinn's breath hitches. It's not that she'd forgotten it was Mother's Day—she just hadn't fully processed that she has a reason to celebrate this year beyond the painful reminder that her first born daughter will always call another woman Mom. Her hand presses to her belly again, seeking out the physical proof that she's soon going to have a little girl that  _will_  call her Mom—her and Rachel both—and her eyes glisten with happy tears. "Happy Mother's Day, Rach," she whispers back, watching Rachel's smile tremble with emotion.

Rachel chuckles wetly, wiping at her own suspiciously glittering eyes. "It still doesn't feel completely real to me," she admits.

"That's because you're not the one she's practicing her dance moves inside of," Quinn reminds her wryly.

Rachel's grin widens, and her hand predictably seeks out the swell of Quinn's belly. "Did you wake Mommy up before I could?" she asks Quinn's bump.

Quinn presses her own hand over Rachel's, guiding it a little to the left where their daughter is still moving. "She did."

"You just wanted to to be the first to wish her a happy Mother's Day, didn't you?" she coos, and Quinn can feel her eyes grow moist again. Damn hormones!

"Or maybe she was missing Mama," Quinn points out. "We usually wake up with you holding us."

Rachel smiles apologetically. "I wanted to surprise you with breakfast." She looks pointedly at the tray. "I even cooked the dead pig for you."

Quinn laughs. "And we appreciate it."

"So eat," Rachel orders, reluctantly tearing her hand away from Quinn's body. "Before it gets cold."

Quinn dutifully picks up her fork, frowning when Rachel stands up. "Aren't you joining me."

"In a minute," Rachel promises before she scurries back out of the room. Quinn sighs and digs into her meal, suddenly starving.

Rachel returns a few minutes later with a cup of coffee and Oliver circling her feet, and she gently slips back into her side of the bed, followed by a much less gentle Ollie, who Rachel quickly corrals away from Quinn and her breakfast.

"Aren't you eating?" Quinn questions.

Rachel's lips quirk into a half smile. "I already did. The first two pieces were a little crispy," she admits with a familiar sigh of grudging acceptance that Quinn finds endearing—though she finds Rachel watching her eat a little less so. Still, they pass the next few minutes in comfortable silence interspersed with the usual small talk about Quinn's plans for the day and whether or not Rachel should attempt to come home between her shows.

Before long, Rachel's coffee cup is set aside, and she takes Quinn's now empty breakfast tray and places it neatly on the floor, giving Ollie an unexpected treat as he hops down and happily laps at the remaining traces of maple syrup. Rachel snuggles into Quinn's side, laying her head against Quinn's shoulder. "I wish I could spend the whole day here with you."

"Next year," Quinn offers, reminding Rachel of her promise to take some time off to be with Quinn and the baby after she finishes her contract with  _Confessions._

"Next year," Rachel vows with a determined nod.

Quinn closes her eyes, letting herself enjoy the lazy morning and smiling when she feels Rachel's hand begin to trace gentle circles over her belly as she hums quietly. Then Quinn's breath catches when Rachel begins to sing—so softly and gently that it brings tears to Quinn's eyes once again.

 _"She's got a baby inside,_  
_and holds her belly tight,_  
_all through the night,_  
_just so she knows,_  
_she's sleeping so_  
_safely to keep her growing._

 _And oh, when she'll open her eyes,_  
_there will be no surprise_  
_that she'll grow to be_  
_so beautifully,_  
_just like her mother, that's carrying."_

Rachel's lips ghost across Quinn's cheek, and Quinn turns to gaze at her wife.

 _"Oh Capri, she's beauty._  
_Baby inside, she's loving._  
_Oh Capri, she's beauty_  
_There is an angel growing peacefully._  
_Oh Capri, sweet baby."_

Rachel threads the fingers of her other hand into Quinn's hair—all the love in her heart shining through her eyes as she continues to serenade Quinn and their unborn daughter.

 _"Things will be hard at times,_  
_but I've learned to try,_  
_just listening, patiently."_

 _"Oh Capri, sweet baby_  
_Oh Capri, she's beauty_  
_Baby inside, she's loving._  
_Oh Capri, your beauty._  
_Just like your mother, that's carrying."_

"I really love you, you know," Quinn breathes through her tears.

Rachel grins. "Well, you are having my baby. It really is a lovely way to say how much you love me."

Quinn lightly slaps her arm. "Don't you dare go there."

Rachel laughs, hugging Quinn closer and pressing another kiss to her cheek. "I really, really love you, too, baby. Both of you. With all of my heart."

And Quinn knows in  _her_  heart that this is only the first of many very happy Mother's Days to come.


	24. Time's Forever Frozen Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A ficlet involving Quinn's glasses by several requests. Set a few months before _Every Hour Has Come To This._

_We keep this love in a photograph._  
_We made these memories for ourselves._  
_Where our eyes are never closing,_  
_Hearts are never broken,_  
_And time's forever frozen still.  
_ _~Photograph, Ed Sheeran_

_xx_

Her first instinct is to forgo the photograph entirely. She doesn't mind having her picture taken in theory—she's amazingly photogenic after all—but the primary reason that she'd chosen to publish her first novel under the name Lucy Quinn is to maintain as much of her privacy as she can for as long a she can. She knows that her relationship with Rachel will eventually diminish that, especially once her girlfriend rises to her inevitable superstardom, but the more people that Quinn can keep from googling her real name in the meantime, the better for her peace of mind—the better for  _everyone's_  peace of mind, really. Who knows what cybertrail might remain to tie her back to the days of Sky Split's reign of internet terror?

Rachel has long forgiven her for that, and Quinn is hopeful that there isn't anything too damning floating around in the online world about her. Right now, searching her name only generates a couple of hits for those people finder and white pages sites, but Quinn knows there are one or two blurry images of her face posted on Twitter in sneaky photos of Rachel snapped on the fly by her more daring fans. (Quinn might have Rachel's name on her Twitter alerts even though she doesn't really use her account.) It's not enough at this point to be of any real concern or cause more than a passing curiosity about her identity or her relationship with Rachel, but Quinn suspects that it's only a matter of time. A picture on the back of her novel will just be asking for trouble.

But Rachel doesn't agree. "You have to have one," she insists. "All the famous novelists do it."

"I don't know, Rach," Quinn hedges with a frown. "I think I'd prefer going the mysterious route."

Rachel frowns. "It's not mysterious, Quinn. It's reclusive and avoidant. Your readers will wonder what's wrong with you that you won't put your face on your book jacket. And then they won't buy it even though it's brilliant because they'll imagine some beady-eyed sociopath with a handlebar mustache."

"You're ridiculous," Quinn tells her with a laugh, rolling her eyes.

"I'm right," Rachel argues with a firm nod. "Both Devon and Aileen would agree with me."

Quinn sighs, because she knows it's true. "I guess I could look through some old pictures to see if I have a decent mugshot to submit."

Rachel's eyes widen almost comically. "Absolutely not. You're going to let me take a proper headshot."

Quinn stifles a groan. "I don't think so."

Rachel frowns mildly, worrying her lower lip for a moment before shifting closer and lazily trailing a finger over Quinn's collarbone. "But Quinn, baby, you need a picture that will accurately capture your beauty to share it with the world." She reaches up to ghost the backs of her fingers over Quinn's cheek. "Who better to ensure that you're completely satisfied," she purrs through lips that are suddenly very, very close to Quinn's mouth, "than me?" She punctuates the question with a kiss.

When their lips part, Quinn inhales shakily. "Are you trying to bribe me into playing seedy photographer and reluctant model?" she quips throatily.

Rachel grins wickedly. "I wasn't. But now that you mention it," she drawls seductively, "we could make that your reward."

Quinn's eyelids flutter, and her fingers curl against Rachel's waist. She really does love playing with her girlfriend. "Okay," she relents. "You can take a few pictures for the book, but then  _I_ get to play the photographer."

Rachel hums in approval. "Whatever you want, baby."

Unfortunately for Quinn, the photo turns out to be whatever  _Rachel_  wants. Her fast and simple headshot isn't fast  _or_  simple. She'd figured that she would just sit down at her desk or on the sofa and let Rachel snap a few quick shots, but of course, it turns out to be more complicated than that. For one thing, Rachel is determined to avoid the typical author clichés.

"You're not sitting at your desk, and you are absolutely not doing any version of the Thinking Man pose," Rachel tells her in a no nonsense voice as she determinedly browses through Quinn's wardrobe for the perfect shirt that says sexy intellectual—Rachel's words.

Quinn rolls her eyes and laughs. "It's just a picture."

"No, it most certainly is not," Rachel insists, aghast. "It's the first thing that people will see. It's the pretty packaging that will make people want to buy your book when they see it on the shelf."

As much as Quinn hates the concept, she has to admit that Rachel's not wrong. "Fine. What do you suggest?"

Rachel grins. "First, put this on," she instructs, holding up a green, long-sleeve button down. Quinn eyes the shirt skeptically, but she takes it with a shrug. Tossing it across their bed, she reaches for the hem of her white tank top, but Rachel stops her. "Put it on over that."

Quinn shrugs again, picking up the shirt and slipping it on. She starts to button it, but Rachel's hands over hers stop her for the second time. "We're going for  _sexy_ intellectual," Rachel reminds her, taking the front tails of the shirt and tying them into a knot over Quinn's stomach. Then she fusses with the collar for a few moments before making sure the front of the shirt gapes open just so.

Quinn gazes down at herself warily. "This tank top is kind of low cut, Rachel," she warns. "And see through."

Rachel's lips quirk into a grin. "I'll only be shooting you from the shoulders up. You know, you have very lovely clavicles," she comments distractedly, running her fingers over them where they peak out from under the edge of the shirt.

"Is that why you're always kissing them?" Quinn asks with a grin of her own.

"Among other reasons," Rachel mumbles with a blush, turning her attention to Quinn's hair—which she runs her fingers through in a way that has Quinn thinking they should just skip the picture and the role-playing altogether and take advantage of their big, empty bed.

But then Rachel is pulling herself out of the moment and stepping back hastily as she surveys her work with a thoughtful frown. "Just one more thing," she mutters, mostly to herself, turning away from Quinn and circling the bed to Quinn's nightstand, where she rummages through the drawer.

"What are you doing?" Quinn wonders in confusion. When Rachel turns with Quinn's glasses held between her fingers, Quinn hold up her hands defensively. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," Rachel counters, marching toward her.

"I'm not wearing those," Quinn insists petulantly, crossing her arms. "You can't make me."

"Please," Rachel pouts.

"No."

"Pretty please," Rachel tries again, batting her eyelashes and puffing out her lower lip.

"No," Quinn repeats, but it sounds much less convincing the second time.

Rachel saunters closer to her, trailing a fingertip over the exposed skin of her chest again. "You  _know_  what it does to me when you wear them," Rachel murmurs enticingly. "And when I imagine intellectual you on the back of thousands of novels, everyone seeing the sexy writer only I get to enjoy in private," she whispers, swaying closer, "I get even more turned on."

Quinn's groan disappears into Rachel's kiss, and she knows that she's going to be wearing those damn glasses on her dustjacket. "You're going to owe me so big for this," she growls playfully.

Rachel smiles against her lips. "I'll be happy to be in your debt," she promises, and then she steps back, holding up the glasses in silent offering. Quinn reluctantly accepts them, slipping them on, and Rachel licks her lips wantonly—her eyes dark. "Yeah," she breathes, "we need to get this photo taken right now."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "I don't know. Suddenly, I'm not really in that much of a hurry."

Rachel's eyes narrow, but her lips are curving. "Go stand in front of the window," she demands, giving Quinn a gentle push.

Quinn glances outside at their meager view of the tree planted in the sidewalk outside and the brownstone across the street. "Really? That's your big picture idea?"

"You in those glasses in our bedroom with a halo of sunlight in your hair," Rachel explains simply, "is my idea of perfection."

Those damn butterflies erupt again—really, it's been three years and they still sneak attack her every time Rachel says or does something so unintentionally romantic—and Quinn obediently does as she's asked. Rachel smiles at her, following her to the window to unlatch it and throw it open, letting in the early summer breeze. She positions Quinn exactly where she wants her and then picks up Quinn's camera.

"Now, make love to the camera for me, baby," she teases.

"I'd rather be making love to you."

"Soon," Rachel promises, already clicking away at the shutter. "But first, give me that famous  _I'm Quinn Fabray and I'm better than everyone and I know it_  look."

Quinn laughs. "I  _never_  do that," she denies unconvincingly.

"You do it  _all_  the time," Rachel argues laughingly.

"I think you're confusing me with  _you_ , sweetie," Quinn fires back with a smile.

Rachel lifts her head from the camera for a second to grin at her. "But you  _are_  better than everyone. I mean, you chose me."

Quinn laughs again, shaking her head. "And I'm so glad I did. Now take the damn pictures so I can collect on that debt you owe me."

"With pleasure," Rachel husks, and Quinn knows it's a promise of what will come when Rachel puts down the camera and Quinn gets to pick it up. Maybe she'll even leave her glasses on.

Later—much,  _much_  later—when Quinn is naked and sated and curled around her equally naked and exhausted girlfriend, she'll grab the camera off the bedside table and scan through the pictures that Rachel had taken, surprised and impressed with how well some of them turned out. But there's one in particular that immediately captures Quinn's attention, with the sunlight dancing in her hair just right and her eyes shining with secret knowledge from behind those damn glasses. She can already see it on the back of her dustjacket, and she puts the camera back down carefully and curls around Rachel once again, secretly grateful that she'd let Rachel have her way. Because now when people buy her book—and they  _will_  buy it—they'll also be buying into a little piece of the love she shares with the amazing woman who owns her heart.


	25. You're A Criminal As Long As You're Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She notices the mirror first—its formerly pristine glass surface now vandalized with red lipstick messily proclaiming, _hell is so hot right now _. The message is strangely familiar.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Roleplay ficlet set about a month after _Under the Light Of A Thousand Stars_ and before _Getting Crazy By the Bottom Of the Bottle_. Written for Faberry Week, Day 4 - Criminal.
> 
> Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

_I want your horror._  
_I want your design._  
_'Cause you're a criminal_  
_as long as you're mine._  
_I want your love._  
_~Bad Romance, Lady Gaga_

_xx_

There's nothing quite like the roar of applause to make Rachel remember why she does what she does. It's been almost a year since her first performance as Fanny Brice and even longer since they'd started rehearsals, and she has eight months to go until her contract ends, having just signed a six month extension after her Tony win—her beautiful, shiny Tony that she admires every day and obsessively shoos Oliver away from and trusts Quinn to never use as a doorstop. The bump in her status from the win also comes with a really nice bump in her pay (thanks to Evelyn), and that, along with the still enthusiastic audiences, helps her power through the boredom that's begun to set in at delivering the same lines and singing the same songs (wonderful though they are) over and over and over again.

She  _loves_  performing—she  _does_ —and she loves  _Funny Girl_  just as much as she ever did, but she can admit that she's hit the point where she's looking forward to her days away from the theatre just a little more than she used to. Of course, that could also be because she knows that her wife is at home waiting for her. Her wife, Quinn, who is her  _wife_ now. She might still be just a tiny bit obsessed with that word.

So Rachel smiles and thanks her costars for another wonderful performance—she's found that helps to smooth over any ruffled feathers caused by her occasional constructive critiques—before using the towel that Jerry is always so sweet to have on hand for her (possibly at her request) to wipe away the sweat and the excess makeup from her face as she pads to her dressing room. She frowns slightly at seeing the door slightly ajar, but she doesn't think much of it. She could have easily failed to close it completely during her last change, but she makes certain it's fully shut this time after she steps inside.

She notices the mirror first—its formerly pristine glass surface now vandalized with red lipstick messily proclaiming,  _hell is so hot right now_.

The message is strangely familiar.

Behind it, a movement catches her eye, and her heart flies into her throat. She isn't alone!

She spins around with a squeak, pressing a hand to her chest as she confronts her intruder, now standing behind her and twisting the lock on her door with an expert flick of the wrist. It takes a few seconds for Rachel to fully take in the sight before her—ripped and faded jeans topping heavy black boots, a black t-shirt cropped high over well-defined abs, a flannel shirt tied low around a shapely waist, black fingernails tapping impatiently against a pack of cigarettes, and a bored expression on a stunning face framed by messy pink hair.

"Quinn," she breathes in shock, her heart settling back where it belongs but still racing for very different reasons.

"Hey, Berry," Quinn drawls provocatively. "Long time, no see."

"What…?" Rachel begins, staring at her wife in confusion. They'd seen each other just that afternoon before Rachel had left for the theatre, though Quinn hadn't looked anything like  _this_. Rachel hasn't seen this particular look since, "Oh," she realizes belatedly as her cheeks (and certain other parts of her body) grow incredibly warm. "Oh, yes. I suppose it has been a long time, hasn't it?"

Quinn's lips twitch at the corners, and the glint in her eyes conveys just how pleased she is that Rachel is playing along. Then those eyes rake over Rachel's body with an unapologetic leer. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You certainly have," Rachel notes with amusement, leaning back against her vanity as she waits to see what exactly Quinn has planned.

Quinn flashes a predatory grin. "Like what you see?" she asks arrogantly, pushing away from the door while she frees a single cigarette from the pack and holds it between two deft fingers.

"You've always been a very pretty girl, Quinn," Rachel answers with a smile, curling her fingers around the edge of her vanity table to keep from reaching out and touching this very appealing version of her wife. Her libido more than approves.

Quinn laughs. "Pretty, huh?" she challenges, tossing the cigarette pack onto the table beside Rachel and leaning forward into her personal space. "Not...oh," she pauses thoughtfully, licking her lips, "unexpectedly titillating?"

Rachel exhales sharply, letting the vanity take her weight because her knees have gone suddenly, inexplicably weak. "That too," she whispers, swaying toward Quinn in expectation of a kiss.

Quinn swiftly moves away with a satisfied smirk. "Thought so." She pops the cigarette between her lips and digs into her pocket to retrieve a lighter.

Rachel scowls, both from the disappointment of being denied Quinn's lips and the cigarette currently tainting them. "You'd better not be lighting that," she warns.

Quinn pauses, arching an eyebrow. "You gonna stop me?" she taunts around the cigarette, flicking the lighter until the little flame dances precariously close the end of the disgusting cancer stick.

"Quinn!" Rachel growls, lurching forward to make a grab for it.

Quinn dodges her easily, snuffing the flame on the lighter and taking the cigarette out of her mouth. "Oh, don't have a coronary. I'm only playing with you," she promises with a roll of her eyes. "Wouldn't want to damage those precious vocal chords, after all."

Rachel relaxes. She doesn't want to think that Quinn would have actually lit up in here (or  _anywhere_ , ever again), but she does seem remarkably lost in her role. "Thank you."

Quinn nods distractedly, pacing around the little dressing room and eyeing it suspiciously, from the vanity to the rack filled with costumes to the well-used chaise wedged into the far corner. "So, these are the digs a Tony winner gets, huh? I was expecting…more."

"So was I," Rachel muses wryly. It's a fact that Quinn knows very well. It's a nice enough dressing room, but it doesn't really provide her with very much room to maneuver. Another fact that Quinn knows very well. Very, very well.

"Aw, what's the matter, Berry? Broadway not quite what you expected?" Quinn teases. "Did that schoolgirl fantasy of life not come true?"

Rachel's eyes narrow at her choice of phrasing. "Actually, my life is even better than I ever imagined it would be," she admits easily.

"Better than Finn Hudson?" Quinn asks in surprise, pressing a hand to her heart in mock devastation. "Tell me it isn't so."

Rachel bites back a laugh, rolling her eyes at Quinn's antics as she crosses her arms and tries to appear stern. She suspects that she fails miserably. "My wife is much, much better than Finn Hudson," she reveals smugly, although Rachel will be eternally grateful to Finn for reminding them both about the undeniable appeal of Quinn's pink-haired, punk phase.

"Wife?" Quinn repeats, arching an eyebrow. "So straight-laced, little Berry went gay? Never saw that one coming," she quips with a knowing grin.

"Really? Because Santana seemed to think that the clues were all there," Rachel points out—at least the clues that suggested Rachel would go gay for Fabray.

Quinn scoffs. "Santana? Tell me you didn't marry  _that_  bitch."

Rachel doesn't quite manage to stifle her laughter at that. "I didn't. My wife is  _so_  much hotter than her," she murmurs, letting her own gaze travel the length of Quinn's body without shame.

"Thought you were gonna tell me she's a much bigger bitch," Quinn confesses, eyes dancing with humor as she finally flicks the cigarette away.

Rachel shrugs. "Occasionally."

Quinn tilts her head, and her eyes slide down Rachel's body, stopping about midway. "If you're so happily married, where's your ring?"

Rachel's heart jumps, and she instinctively glances at her finger—her very naked finger. She touches the spot reflexively before she realizes that she never got the chance to put her wedding ring back on after the show. She quickly reaches for the chain that she wears under her costume during every performance. "It's here," she says, pulling it free to reveal the sparkling wedding band that matches the one on Quinn's finger—and it  _is_  still on her finger, Rachel notices. Apparently, Quinn hasn't quite gotten  _completely_  into character, though she did take off her engagement ring, likely storing it in the jewelry box right next to Rachel's for safekeeping until she gets home. "I can't wear it while I'm performing," she reminds Quinn needlessly, keeping up the game that they're playing.

Rachel lifts the chain over her head with every intention of putting her ring back on now, but Quinn reaches out and snags it before she has the chance, holding it up for her slow perusal. "Nice," Quinn murmurs appreciatively. "Your lady's got good taste. Expensive, too."

"She does," Rachel agrees with a nod.

"Think I'll keep this little sparkly for myself," Quinn decides with a dangerous grin. "Never know when I might need the extra cash"

"I don't think so," Rachel argues with an indulgent shake of her head, holding out her hand. "Give it back, please."

Quinn moves the chain farther away from her reach. "What do I get in return?"

Rachel lifts an eyebrow in challenge, her palm still open and waiting for her ring back. "My gratitude."

Quinn shakes her head and pockets the ring. "Try again."

"You get to not be arrested for stealing," Rachel threatens impishly, finally dropping her hand to her side.

"You won't call the cops on me," Quinn asserts confidently, moving closer with a smile of wicked intent. "In fact, I think you secretly love the bad girls, don't you?" she teases, pressing against Rachel's side and grazing a hand over her breast. "I bet they really turn you on," she purrs against Rachel's ear, causing Rachel to release a helpless little whimper. "So I'll ask again, what do I get in return?"

"Anything you want," Rachel finally agrees, closing her eyes as she basks in the heat of Quinn's body and the skillful touch of her hand.

Quinn uses her body to press Rachel back against her vanity table. "And what if I want  _you_?" she asks throatily, running a hand over Rachel's hip. "Here? Up against your vanity?"

"Yes," Rachel hisses, sliding impatient palms over the exposed skin beneath Quinn's cropped top. "God, Quinn, anyway you want." She's so turned on right now, she just wants her wife to stop playing and  _take her_  already.

A low chuckle tickles against Rachel's lips before Quinn darts out her tongue to lick at them, urging them open for a deep, heated kiss. Quinn's fingers drag over her body until they curl around the backs of Rachel's thighs, lifting her up and onto the vanity table and sending her makeup and brushes flying. Rachel moans in approval.

Quinn inches up the hem of her skirt and coaxes her legs open to settle between them like she owns Rachel's body (and, right now, she absolutely  _does_ ), and then she leans back to gaze at Rachel wantonly. "What about that wife of yours?"

Rachel tangles her fingers into soft, pink hair, biting into her own lip as she stares longingly at Quinn's mouth. "I think she'll forgive me just this once." Though Rachel's costume manager probably won't.

Quinn's lips quirk into a smile. "She must be a saint."

Rachel laughs. "She's the very devil when she wants to be."

Quinn slowly runs her tongue across her lower lip as she slides skilled fingers ever higher on Rachel's thighs. "Hmm. Guess hell really _is_ hot right now."

"So hot," Rachel growls, impatiently dragging Quinn's mouth back to hers. She's so very glad that Quinn locked the door, because she has a whole lot of fantasies that involve being defiled by this sexy, pink-haired, delinquent version of Quinn Fabray, and she plans to make sure that they're both found guilty of multiple sex offenses before the night is through.


	26. Only Fight For Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Domestic Squabble drabble by request. Set after the ficlet _Dreaming While I Drove_ and before _A Feline Casanova._

_I won't let go, I won't give up,_  
_and if we fight, we'll only fight for us._  
_~Try, Natasha Bedingfield_

_xx_

Quinn grits her teeth as she stares down at the ugly, dried ring on the wooden coffee table that was revealed when she lifted the half-empty mug from where it had been abandoned. "Rachel," she growls, tightening her hand around the coffee mug, but her annoyance is greeted with nothing but the sound of the shower still running.

She takes a deep breath, reminding herself of how happy she is that Rachel is home and how much she'd missed her when she'd been traveling with  _Les Mis._ The little habit she has of leaving her coffee mug on the table without using a coaster is not going to bring the world crashing to a halt—neither is the sweater tossed carelessly over the arm of the chair, the growing pile of dirty laundry on the floor in their bedroom, or the increasingly messy bathroom being overtaken by Rachel's beauty products. It's just that Quinn has had a particularly tiring day at work and the last thing she needs is extra work to do around the apartment.

The last time Rachel had been between shows, she'd taken to obsessively cleaning the apartment to combat the boredom, but Rachel has only been back for two weeks and hasn't quite remembered how to tidy up after herself yet. It also hasn't helped that she's already signed on to replace the lead actress in  _Crazy For You_  and only has a limited time to squeeze in enough rehearsals around the show's ongoing performance schedule in order to prepare for her debut in ten days.

Quinn carries the mug over to the kitchen and dumps the rest of the coffee into the sink before rinsing it out. Grabbing the salt and a bowl, she mixes a small amount with some water to make a paste that she hopes will remove the stain on the table. It's one of the tricks that her mother taught her for taking care of a house.

She paces back to the coffee table, sitting on the edge of the sofa as she begins to meticulously work out the stain. In the background, she can hear the bathroom door open, but she doesn't look away from her task until she notices the shadow fall across the table.

"Hey, baby," Rachel greets her with a smile, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around her damp body while tendrils of wet hair cascade over bare shoulders. "I thought I heard you come home. How was work?"

"Fine," Quinn grunts. She notices a droplet of water fall onto the table from Rachel's hair, and she frowns. "Could you maybe not add more water stains to this table." She reaches across to wipe the drop away before it has a chance to do any damage.

Rachel's smile slips away, but she does take a step back away from the table as she reaches up to sweep her hair back. "Someone's in a bad mood."

" _Someone_  is trying to remove the stain that  _you_  created with your damn coffee cup." Quinn glances up irritably. "Is it really so hard to remember to use a coaster?"

"I'm sorry. I was running late for rehearsal today," Rachel explains. "I forgot."

"You always forget," Quinn reminds her sharply. "This is the second time I've had to do this since you came back from your tour."

Rachel crosses her arms and scowls. "It's just a table, Quinn."

"And this is a coaster," Quinn points out, pausing to lift one from the little container she keeps on the table. "It would literally take you two seconds to grab one and toss it on the table underneath your mug."

"I. Forgot," Rachel enunciates. "Maybe if you would just leave them out instead of restacking them all the time, I wouldn't keep forgetting to use them."

"I like to keep the apartment neat. Unlike you."

Rachel plants her hands on her hips. "I do my fair share of cleaning."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "When you have nothing else to do maybe. But you never clean the bathroom, you always leave your clothes lying all over the place..."

"Maybe I wouldn't do that if I had more than six inches of space in our closet!" Rachel accuses.

Quinn huffs, in no mood to revisit that discussion right now. "You have more than enough closet space."

"In the other bedroom," Rachel reminds her heatedly.

Quinn drags a hand through her hair. "Look, I don't want to fight with you, Rach." She hadn't meant to be such a harpy over a coffee stain, but once she'd opened her mouth, her temper had overtaken her reason. "I know you have rehearsals right now, but I spend eight to ten hours a day at work, and when I come home, I have to worry about what we're having for dinner. I'd love to be able to just kick off my shoes," she laughs ruefully, waving a hand over Rachel's towel-clad body, "take a shower, and relax, but I can't...because I have to go around cleaning up after all the things you  _forgot_ ," she punctuates with a finger pointed at the table. "I just need you to remember that you're not living out of a hotel room anymore. The maid isn't the one who has to tidy up after you.  _I_  am."

Quinn watches the lingering indignation drain out of Rachel's posture. "I suppose I did get somewhat accustomed to the maid service," she admits reluctantly, moving around to sit on the sofa next to Quinn. She twists her fist into the front of her towel when it begins to slip. "I promise I'll try to keep things a little neater...and remember the coaster."

"Thank you," Quinn breathes in relief. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you. Today kind of sucked, and the stain on the table just pushed the wrong button."

"Aw, I'm sorry, baby." Rachel coos, reaching out to lightly cup Quinn's neck and gently massage the skin beneath her touch. "Why don't you go change out of your business suit; maybe take a shower if you want. I can take care of dinner."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Um...that's sweet of you to offer, but I'd actually like to eat tonight."

Rachel squeezes her neck a bit harder. "Very funny. I was thinking takeout. How does Mexican sound?"

"Sounds perfect," Quinn sighs, leaning into Rachel's touch. Having her here is worth all the coffee stains and messy bathrooms in the world. "Order me beef enchiladas and I'll even forgive you for getting the sofa cushions wet."


	27. Build This Dream Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Tony Award drabble by request. Set after _Under the Light Of A Thousand Stars_ and before the ficlet _You're A Criminal As Long As You're Mine._

_And we can build this dream together,_  
_standing strong forever._  
_Nothing's gonna stop us now._  
_~Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Starship_

_xx_

It feels like a dream.

The last time Rachel had been here, she'd had to smile and pretend to be a gracious loser after her name  _hadn't_  echoed through the theatre for Best Lead Actress in a Musical. The best part of the night had been the person sitting beside her—the person who's been both her harshest critic and her biggest fan in turn. Her plus one. Her person.

Her Quinn.

Tonight, she's nominated for the role that she'd dreamed of playing since she'd been a little girl, and Quinn is sitting beside her again, this time as her  _wife_ —her gorgeous, sexy, talented wife. They're still the newest of newlyweds, barely back from their honeymoon, but there's no way either of them would ever miss this night.

Quinn looks absolutely beautiful in a midnight blue gown, and Rachel had felt so incredibly proud to walk the red carpet with her wife at her side. There were a few questions posed from those who hadn't known that Rachel had married a woman—questions that she'd answered honestly and without shame. She suspects Evelyn will grumble about the extra publicity for her marriage, but Rachel doesn't care in the least. She and Quinn have worked too hard and come too far in their relationship to hide it for any reason.

And there's no absolutely no way that they could even begin to hide what they are to each other, because this time, it's Rachel's name that echoes through the theatre.

"Oh, my God," she whispers, gripping Quinn's hand even more tightly. "Oh, my God."

"Rachel, sweetheart. You won," Quinn murmurs, happy tears glistening in her eyes as she squeezes Rachel's hand.

"I won," Rachel repeats dumbly, gazing at her wife. "I won," she repeats, a grin quickly blooming on her lips. She finally has her Tony. In a heartbeat, she's leaning across the seat and kissing Quinn in celebration, careless of the camera zooming in on them for all of the world to see.

"Get up there," Quinn urges when their lips part. "You deserve it."

Rachel nods, swooping in for one more quick kiss before she practically flies out of her chair and races up the aisle.  _Don't trip, don't trip,_  she silently chants in her head as she grips the material of her red dress and lifts it away from her shoes so that she can climb the steps to the stage without falling.

She barely registers the congratulatory kiss that Sutton Foster presses to her cheek, but she certainly feels every ounce of the weight that settles into her hands as she clutches the Tony Award close to her chest. Her eyes seek out Quinn in the audience, unerringly finding her despite the hundreds of faces and the harsh lights and flashbulbs creating halos around her eyes. Just knowing that Quinn is there grounds Rachel and brings the room back into focus.

"The first time I told someone outside of my immediate family that I'd be standing here someday, holding this award, I was five years old. She had no idea what I was talking about," Rachel confesses into the microphone, pausing to let some of the gentle laughter trickle through the auditorium. She wonders if Santana remembers or even realizes that she'd been the first to hear one of Rachel's Broadway-bound rambles in the back of that first grade classroom. "But that didn't deter me from chasing my dream, because I fell in love with Broadway from the moment that my dads first played the soundtrack of  _Oklahoma!_ while I was still in diapers _._ I've always known that this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. So I want to thank my dads, Hiram and Leroy, for introducing me to the wonders of music and theater. I wouldn't be standing here without the both of you. I also want to thank the cast and crew of  _Funny Girl._ This award truly belongs to all of us, but I'm taking it home with me and keeping it on my shelf."

There's another rumble of laughter, and Rachel takes a breath, smiling through her tears. "Thank you Kurt and Santana and everyone from our high school glee club for constantly pushing me to be the best and fight for my dreams. Your friendship made me stronger. And finally, Quinn...my wife...the love of my life," she announces with a tremor in her voice as the depth of her emotion overwhelms her. A hundred memories bombard her all at once, from confrontations in bathrooms to a meaningful ' _you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way'_  uttered across a piano to bouquets sent on her opening nights to the vows of forever that they'd only just made to each other. "You've always believed in me...believed that I belong here," Rachel acknowledges lovingly. "You once told me that I had an amazing life ahead of me, and you were right. It's amazing because I have you. And this," she holds up the Tony, "only makes it better. I love you, baby. Thank you for always being my biggest fan."

The room erupts in applause, and Rachel makes her way off-stage through a haze of happy tears. She's forced to stop and accept multiple congratulations, as well as give a few quick blurbs to the reporters lingering backstage, when all she really wants is to get back to Quinn so they can both celebrate her success together.

Finally, she's able to return to her seat, and she finds her wife right there waiting for her with a wide smile and sparkling eyes. The ceremony is still on a commercial break, so Quinn stands when Rachel slips back into the row, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. "I love you," Quinn breathes against her ear. "And I'm so proud of you."

Rachel presses her lips to Quinn's cheek before she pulls back to gaze into those beloved hazel eyes. "I meant what I said up there. As happy as I am about winning tonight, it doesn't even come close to our wedding as the happiest moment of my life."

Quinn leans forward and kisses her—softly and sweetly. "But it's still pretty high up there on the list, right?" she guesses with a knowing grin.

"Hell, yes," Rachel confirms with a smug smile. "I hope you're okay with Tony here sleeping in our bed tonight," she teases.

Quinn laughs, her arms tightening around Rachel. "As long as I get to be the one holding  _you_."

"Always," Rachel promises easily, leaning into her wife. Her life really does feel like a dream come true, and she never wants to wake up.


	28. It's All How You Use It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Santana/Teresa (Santaresa) ficlet set after _Don't Want To Wake Up Lonely_ and before the ficlet _If I'm A Fool For Love._

_If God is a DJ,_  
_life is a dance floor._  
_Love is the rhythm._  
_You are the music._  
_If God is a DJ,_  
_life is a dance floor._  
_You get what you're given._  
_It's all how you use it._  
_~God Is A DJ, P!nk_

_xx_

It's always a little weird for Teresa to be on the wrong side of the bar. The bitters in her Old Fashioned are just a touch too strong, a standard maraschino cherry decorates her glass instead of the brandy soaked cherries that she prefers, and she knows that she could have (and  _has)_ mixed a better drink than this, but she also knows that she's unnecessarily critical of any bartender that isn't—well,  _her_. But Santana seems happy enough with her tequila while Quinn slowly sips a glass of the house wine and Rachel clutches a highball of 7 and 7 that Teresa suspects is mostly 7-Up and ice. They're not really here for the drinks anyway—they're here for the piano and the drunken warbling that fills the downstairs of The Duplex every night after nine.

Teresa has been dating Santana for almost a month, and so far, it's going so much better than she ever would have anticipated when she'd agreed to that first meeting for coffee. Honestly, despite the assurances given to her by Santana's friends and a surprisingly enjoyable first phone conversation, she'd been expecting the same cocky grin, overinflated ego, and familiar variation of an invitation into the woman's bed to follow not long after sitting down across from her at the coffee shop. What she'd gotten instead had been an older, obviously wearier, but still unfairly stunning and unarguably confident woman who wasn't afraid to lay everything out on the table from the get-go. The in-your-face approach and unapologetic flirtation had felt like a breath of fresh air after her last relationship, and Teresa has never been with anybody who can make her laugh the way Santana makes her laugh. Santana Lopez has changed for the better—or maybe it's Teresa who's changed. Either way, this feels like it might be turning into something really wonderful.

Admittedly, Santana spends more hours at the hospital than Teresa personally thinks is healthy, but she understands how important Santana's career is to her, and she sure as hell isn't the kind of woman who needs to be with her partner every minute of every day. That much togetherness would probably drive her insane, and anyway, she has a tendency to get lost for hours at a time in front of her canvases when she's feeling inspired, and she still has to work odd hours behind the bar to earn a steady paycheck and tips. Even if she didn't need the income, she actually likes the human interaction and the stories that she hears from some of her customers. Teresa is never going to be a nine to five kind of girl, so it doesn't bother her in the least that Santana can't be either. She's more concerned that Santana's demanding schedule will cause her to burn out or pass out or run herself into the ground. Yeah—one month in and Teresa is already worried about Santana's health and happiness. Who would have thought?

She automatically glances at Rachel, who's making a disgusted face at either her drink or the tipsy guy currently butchering the lyrics to "Hey Jude," and has her answer.  _Rachel_  had thought. Santana hates to admit that Rachel did them both a really big favor by approaching Teresa at the art gallery on Santana's behalf, but Teresa has no problem giving credit where credit is due. She's really glad that she gave Rachel and Quinn her phone number, and she's definitely very glad that Santana called her.

She likes Santana's friends. Of course, she'd liked Rachel the first time that she'd walked into Ten Degrees and sat her cute, little ass down next to Santana, and not merely because it was an easy way to get under Santana's skin at the time—though that had definitely been a nice bonus. Quinn had been another story, but after their first uneasy interaction, Teresa had developed a grudging respect for the generally aloof blonde. Now, thanks to their double date tonight and the lively dinner that they'd shared before coming here, Teresa can see the easy way they interact with each other and with Santana. It's pretty clear that they all just seem to fit together, and she really wouldn't mind becoming a permanent fourth wheel to their dynamic.

Mostly, she likes  _Santana_. A lot. And they haven't even had sex yet, although it's getting harder and harder for Teresa to remember why she'd wanted to take things slow on that front.

It turns out that Santana really is a hell of a lot more than her fantastic boobs, overconfidence, and often abrasive personality. She's fierce and loyal and extremely protective of the people that she cares about, and Teresa has been noticing more and more of that squishy, emo crap that Santana hates to admit to feeling start to slip out around the edges of her occasionally bitchy exterior. She really likes that side of Santana, and she hopes that she'll get to see a lot more of it in the future.

"I think my ears are actually bleeding," Santana grumbles over the music, making a show of pressing two fingers to her left earlobe and pulling them away in search of blood. "Someone call Sugar, because that guy just stole the nails-on-the-chalkboard award right out from under her very pronounced nose."

Obviously, Teresa won't be seeing much of that emo side tonight.

"Who's Sugar?" she asks, mildly curious—it's a name that she hasn't heard yet, and she's already heard  _a lot_  of names ticked off the list of Santana's conquests.

Rachel grimaces again before leaning forward across the small table that they'd only managed to commandeer after the guys who'd been sitting there had recognized Rachel and, being huge fans of her Fanny (with absolutely no pun intended), had willingly given up their seats for an autograph. "Sugar was someone with an unfortunate tonal dissonance who was briefly a member of our award-winning, high school show choir. Needless to say, we made certain that she merely swayed in the background."

Santana snorts into her tequila. "Rachel tried to make sure everyone not named Rachel swayed in the background."

"That is a gross fallacy," Rachel argues. "You and Quinn both had solos. In competitions, if might I remind you."

"Mine was a duet," Quinn corrects with a shrug.

Santana turns to Teresa with a smirk. "With her  _boyfriend_. When she was still pretending she could drive stick." Teresa can't help smiling at that—seeing Quinn with Rachel now, it's hard to imagine either one of them being with anyone else.

"My boyfriend that  _you_ started dating as soon as we broke up," Quinn reminds her evilly.

"You mean, as soon as he dumped you?" Santana challenges.

"We all made questionable dating decisions in high school," Rachel is quick to intercede in an attempt to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "And it was a lovely duet nevertheless," she compliments Quinn with a loving smile. "Obviously, it would have been so much better had it been with me, but hindsight is twenty-twenty after all."

Teresa has heard Rachel sing live on a Broadway stage twice and watched her on the Tonys last year, and Santana has briefly mentioned her own stint in their high school glee club, though Teresa hasn't been given a sample of her singing yet, but she didn't realize that Quinn had been a singer too. "You guys should go up there and sing something now," she suggests amiably, watching the affectionate grin that Quinn has directed at Rachel disappear in the same instant that Rachel's smile widens with excitement.

"Yes!"

"No," Quinn protests at the same time.

"Please, baby," Rachel whines. "We make such beautiful music together."

Santana chokes on her tequila as she barks out a laugh, wiping a small bit of the liquid from the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, Lucy Q. Why don't you go on up there and make musical love with your wife in front of all these people?"

Quinn aims a playful scowl at Santana. "I'd rather keep those performances private, thank you." Then she flashes an apologetic smile to Teresa before addressing her pouting wife. "I'm sorry, Rach. You know I'm not really comfortable singing in public after all these years, but you should absolutely go up there and show them how it's done. I know you're dying to."

Rachel's disappointment quickly transforms into unconcealed interest. "Well, if you really think I should."

Quinn laughs and nods. "You know how much I love to listen to you sing," she urges before she leans over and brushes a fleeting kiss of encouragement across Rachel's lips.

"Like she really needs to be talked into it," Santana mutters, rolling her eyes.

"I'll be back," Rachel promises with a grin before she shimmies out of her seat in the corner and makes her way up to the piano just in time for the final chorus of tipsy guy's horrendous performance. Quinn leans forward with one elbow on the table and her chin propped against her hand as she stares after her wife with a besotted smile on her face.

"Fifty bucks says it's 'Don't Rain On My Parade,'" Santana wagers.

Quinn's eyes narrow as she turns her attention to Santana. "Rachel is actually pretty burned out on that one after singing it over six hundred times in the last two years."

"She sounds amazing singing it though," Teresa adds appreciatively, remembering the seamless way Rachel had hit those high notes at the performance she'd attended last year.

"She sounds amazing singing everything," Quinn agrees.

"Except 'The Climb,'" Santana adds with a snicker.

Quinn barks out a spontaneous laugh before she gets ahold of herself with a shake of her head. "We were sixteen," she explains to Teresa. "And Rachel was coming down with a case of laryngitis. It was…not her best performance."

"But it  _was_  the best week ever," Santana muses fondly.

"I somehow doubt that," Teresa comments, amused. She already knows that there isn't anything Santana wouldn't do for her friends, so she doesn't take any of the woman's teasing remarks seriously.

Santana flashes her a devilish grin. "You wouldn't if you'd had to listen to her mouth flapping everyday since elementary school."

Whatever Quinn might or might not have said in defense of her wife is tabled when the pianist announces, "We have a very special guest tonight requesting a turn at the microphone. Everyone please welcome, direct from her Tony-winning run in  _Funny Girl_ , Ms. Rachel Berry."

Quinn lets out a loud hoot, cheering enthusiastically for her wife amidst the sea of applause, and Teresa grins because Santana is doing the same thing.  _Best week ever_ , her ass. When the piano begins to play, it becomes clear that Quinn should have taken Santana's bet, because it would have been an easy fifty bucks.

" _Come on, babe,  
why don't we paint the town?"_

Rachel points at Quinn with the hand that isn't cradling the microphone, sending her an exaggerated wink before fully engaging the rest of her audience.

" _And all that jazz."_

" _I'm gonna rouge my knees,_  
_and roll my stockings down._  
_And all that jazz._

" _Start the car.  
I know a whoopee spot…"_

Rachel picks up the pianist's tumbler off the top of the piano, lifting it into the air.

" _Where the gin is cold,  
but the piano's hot._ "

She slams the tumbler back onto the piano exactly on beat.

" _It's just a noisy hall_  
_where there's a nightly brawl,_  
_and all…that…jazz."_

Rachel playfully runs her fingers through the pianist's messy hair to the hoots and hollers of the nearby patrons.

"Damn, she's good," Teresa breathes in awe, watching Rachel effortlessly turn the bar into a Broadway cabaret. All of the rowdy conversations that had been buzzing around them since they'd arrived have fallen silent—everyone's attention focused solely on Rachel Berry.

Quinn only smiles, silently nodding her agreement without removing her eyes from her wife, but Santana glances back at her with a thoughtful frown. Teresa grins at her girlfriend—because really, like she's not going to state the obvious—before she sits back to watch the free show. And Rachel is certainly giving them one. She'd make one hell of a Velma Kelly if  _Chicago_  ever has another revival. It's clear that she loves to perform as much as Teresa loves to paint—probably as much as Quinn loves to write. By the end of the song, everyone in the bar is lending their voice to every  _all that jazz_  while Rachel shimmies, shakes and—well, all that jazz.

" _No, I'm no one's wife."_

Rachel shrugs almost guiltily and looks directly at Quinn as she sings, _"but oh, I love my life._

" _And all. That. Jazz!  
That Jazz."_

Teresa cheers along with everyone else as Rachel does an adorable little curtsey before handing the microphone back to the pianist. Santana slips out of her chair with a mumbled, "Be right back," that Teresa doesn't so much hear over the rising noise around them as read on her lips —a trick she'd learned from tending to her own customers over the din of drunken shouts and pounding music. She frowns as she watches Santana slither through the crowd, meeting Rachel before she's even taken three steps away from the piano. Santana leans in to say something close to Rachel's ear, and Rachel smiles widely, nodding before she turns back to talk to the pianist again.

"What are they up to?" Teresa asks Quinn.

"No idea," she responds with a shrug, but the expression on her face is slightly wary.

It becomes pretty clear what's happening when Santana moves around the piano to pick up the microphone while Rachel thanks the pianist with a pat on his shoulder before cutting a path through the crowd back to their table. Quinn slides over into the chair Rachel had previously occupied to make it easier for her wife to sit down, and Rachel falls into the empty chair with a happy grin before she steals a kiss from Quinn that's much less chaste than the one they'd shared before she'd gotten up to sing. Apparently, Rachel's performances get both of their motors going.

"You were amazing," Quinn says breathlessly when they part.

"I know," Rachel answers with a smug grin. "But how was my performance?"

Teresa would probably find them too adorable for words if her attention hadn't been immediately captured by the sensual timbre of Santana's voice suddenly filling the bar.

" _I don't want you to be no slave._  
_I don't want you to work all day,_  
_but I want you to be true._  
_And I just wanna make love to you."_

Teresa laughs, shaking her head because of course Santana would pick _this_ song. She's staring straight at Teresa with that sexy smirk of hers and those smokey, bedroom eyes. And oh, God, her voice! She might not be a classically trained vocalist, but Teresa can feel the power of it vibrate through her body, tickling her stomach and heating her blood. The buzz of conversation has dimmed once again, and more than one pair of eyes is suddenly glued to Santana as she attempts to seduce Teresa from across the bar.

" _All I want to do is wash your clothes.  
I don't want to keep you indoors."_

Santana runs a hand over her body suggestively, every bit the performer that Rachel was.

" _There is nothing for you to do,_  
_but keep me making love to you._  
_Love to you, ooh, ooh..."_

"Woo! Yeah, babe, you can make love to me anytime!" shouts some drunken guy from the back of the bar.

Teresa whips her head around to glare in the general direction of the, "Asshole." She's fully aware that Santana is hot as hell, but it's just fucking rude to catcall her in the middle of a song, especially when she's already taken!

"Down girl," Quinn teases with a knowing smirk, one arm around Rachel who's snuggled into her side with a pleased grin of her own.

Teresa blushes, shrugging sheepishly before returning her full attention to her girlfriend, only to find Santana's heated gaze still on her.

" _And I can tell by the way you walk that walk._  
_I can hear by the way you talk that talk._  
_And I can know by the way you treat your girl_  
_that I can give you all the lovin' in the whole wide world."_

And yeah, maybe Teresa is completely seduced. The heat pooling in her belly tells her that she and Santana are about to be done taking things slow. She's never had someone serenade her before, and as much as she knows that Santana had initially picked this song as a joke, the way she's singing it and the expression on her face tell Teresa that she wants a lot more than sex with her. There are a hundred promises hidden beneath the obvious lyrics.

Santana is a woman of many hidden talents. Teresa never would have guessed that she could command an audience nearly as effortlessly as Rachel Berry. Their high school glee club must have been something to see. She makes a mental note to ask Santana if she has any old recordings stashed away. If she doesn't, Teresa has a sneaking suspicion that Rachel will. She wonders if Santana and Rachel had ever done a duet—that's something she really thinks she'd like to hear. She definitely wants to hear more of Santana.

If the woman had thought to serenade her four years ago, Teresa might have fallen into her bed without much protest, despite the fact that it would have meant breaking her own rule to never knowingly become anyone's temporary fling. Okay—so she probably wouldn't have actually done it, but Santana definitely would have been a much bigger temptation.

When Santana belts out the final notes, the bar erupts in applause again, and Quinn and Rachel both cheer loudly for their friend. Teresa watches Santana walk toward them with an arched eyebrow and a cocky grin, and she finds herself standing up just as she reaches the table.

"So, did you…?" Santana starts to ask, but Teresa is already moving, stepping into Santana's personal space and sliding her fingers into soft, dark hair to pull her closer and stop her words with a kiss. She's vaguely aware of the hoots and hollers from the bar-goers around them who are watching, but she doesn't care. She's too busy feeling the sparks ignite all through her body when Santana's arms slip around her waist and her lips part against Teresa's mouth.

It's certainly not their first kiss. They've been doing quite a lot of that after every date, along with other things that leave them both hot and bothered and in need of a cold shower. Santana's tongue is talented at so much more than forming snarky barbs and sexual innuendos. It's been pretty clear to Teresa since their first date that physical chemistry isn't something that she and Santana have to worry about at all.

"Get a room," Quinn heckles loudly enough to draw Santana's attention, and Teresa feels the exasperated sigh flutter against her lips as Santana breaks their kiss.

"She's still such a prude," Santana snarks, rolling her eyes as she smiles lazily at Teresa.

"It's called payback," Quinn corrects, having heard her comment over the drunken revelry around them. "And no one deserves it more."

"We're very sorry that you have to be caught in the crossfires, Teresa," Rachel apologizes, but she doesn't really look very sorry at all.

"You're lucky I like your friends," Teresa quips, idly curling a strand of Santana's hair around her finger.

Santana shakes her head, still smiling. "They are pretty annoying, aren't they?"

"Not really," Teresa admits honestly. "But even if they were, I think you'd probably still be worth it."

"Probably?" Santana echoes in exaggerated outrage. "There's no  _probably_ about it, hermosa. I'm a fucking catch," she boasts.

Teresa silently agrees, increasingly determined to be the one to catch her permanently. Of course, she's not about to give Santana the satisfaction of admitting to that out loud—not yet. "That ego's not getting any smaller, is it?"

"Maybe you could try stroking it a little," Santana suggests with a wicked grin. "You know, calm it down some."

Teresa laughs. "Yeah, I don't think it works that way." She brushes another soft kiss across Santana's lips. "But you were really incredible up there," she admits, wanting Santana to know how much she'd loved hearing her sing.

Delight plays over Santana's face, but she attempts to cover the effect of Teresa's praise with her typical brazenness. "I'm incredible in a lot of ways. I can demonstrate any and all of them whenever you want."

Teresa lets her own lips curl into a sexy smile. "I think I might just take you up on that offer in the very near future," she teases, and she feels Santana's breath hitch before she slips out of her arms and reclaims her chair, leaving Santana to stare down at her with darkening eyes.

Santana pushes her own chair closer to Teresa before dropping into it. "How near in the future are we talking?" she asks hopefully. "'Cause we can ditch the Faborings right now if you want a private performance of that song."

"We're sitting right here," Quinn reminds them.

"And we are  _not_ boring," Rachel protests, offended.

Santana rolls her eyes but keeps her attention on Teresa. "Seriously. Say the word and we'll be out of here and on the subway back to my place."

Teresa chuckles and pats Santana's thigh. "Later, tiger. We have plenty of time." She's really enjoying this whole double date thing and getting to discover the side of Santana that comes out to play when her friends are around. "Let's see where the night takes us."

"So…it could possibly take us back to my place?" Santana stubbornly questions.

Teresa laughingly leans in and pecks Santana's lips. "Possibly," she concedes. "Now," she drawls, leaning back in her chair and glancing at Quinn and Rachel, who are trying not to be too obvious with their voyeurism, "how many drinks do we have to buy Quinn to get her up to the microphone next? I think I need to hear the trifecta tonight."

Santana laughs at Quinn's stunned expression and Rachel's calculating smile. "That's my girl," she crows, lifting up her tequila glass in a proud toast.

Yeah, Teresa could definitely get used to being Santana's girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"All That Jazz," from the musical_ Chicago  
>  _"I Just Want To Make Love to You," Etta James_


	29. Watch Them Grow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A ficlet set after _She Was Pure Like Snowflake_ and before the ficlet _Sometimes I'm Easily Fooled._

_I hear babies cry, and I watch them grow._  
_They'll learn much more than I'll ever know,_  
_And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."  
_ _~What A Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong_

_xx_

Hiram Berry has a small repertoire of meals that he's very good at preparing, but he's been working on perfecting a few additions to his proverbial wheelhouse ever since he'd officially retired four years ago. Regardless of this fact, he and Leroy still tend to rely heavily on the restaurants near their house in Fairfield more often than not, which is why he's particularly happy for the chance to break out his recipe for eggplant parmigiana to make a nice, family dinner in honor of his daughters who are going to be visiting from Manhattan. Thank God Rachelah is eating cheese again. Those years when she'd gone vegan had been hell on his menu planning, not to mention his wallet.

He'd swung by the grocery store first thing this morning to pick up a few items that he'd needed to complete his recipe and then stopped to buy a nice bottle of zinfandel. He and Leroy had polished off their last one two days ago. He wishes that he'd had more notice that his daughter and daughter-in-law were coming, but it's understandable that they hadn't known for certain that they'd be able to get away between Rachel's schedule and the uncooperative weather. After all, it's been nearly two months since he and Leroy have been able to make it down to Manhattan thanks to the never-ending parade of snowstorms marching across the northeast. He's grateful for the brief reprieve this past week has provided, but since March is coming in like the proverbial lamb, he suspects the winter is going to come back with a roar.

Rachel's current show is dark today, and since the next performance isn't until tomorrow evening, she and Quinn have decided to come for an overnight visit and catch a morning train back. So Hiram had left Leroy at home to finish tidying up the house—it's never quite clean enough for his husband, especially with company coming—and made the drive to the train station alone to pick up the girls. When he arrives, he can see that the train is already there, and a few people are trickling out into the still slushy parking lot, so he forgoes attempting to park and pulls up to the curb instead. It only takes a minute for him to see his bundled-up daughter maneuvering out of the station with one hand clutching her wife's hand and the other dragging a small suitcase behind her.

Hiram throws open his door and slides out of the car, jogging the short distance over to them with a smile, a wave, and a jovial, "Hello, girls."

"Daddy," Rachel responds with a familiar smile curving her lips. She drops her grip on her suitcase and lets go of Quinn's hand to throw her arms around him. "It's so good to see you," she breathes into his shoulder.

"The feeling is entirely mutual." He hugs her tightly, closing his eyes and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. He misses these hugs when he can't have them, and he's so glad that he'd let Leroy convince him that they should retire to Connecticut—it's an easy enough distance to New York City but not too close that he and his husband can't have their own privacy.

"My beautiful girl," he murmurs before releasing Rachel and turning to his daughter-in-law, nearly as happy to see her as he is to see Rachel. "And Quinn, my dear, you're looking as lovely as ever." He reaches for the gloved hand that Rachel had abandoned and holds it between both of his, patting it as he bends slightly to kiss her cheek.

Quinn gives one of his hands a little squeeze, grinning. "So are you, Hiram."

He laughs. "It's my new glasses," he confides with a wink. "Leroy says they make me look ten years younger. Let me get that bag," he insists, moving to claim the handle that Rachel had dropped. "You two go get in the car before you catch pneumonia."

Rachel's eyes widen in mild alarm. "We should do that, yes. We can't take any unnecessary chances with our health."

Hiram chuckles as he grabs their suitcase, well aware of how health conscious his Rachel can be—her voice is her livelihood after all.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "It's not  _that_  cold today."

"It's cold enough," Rachel scolds, reaching over to pull the edges of Quinn's coat together more tightly at the collar before reclaiming her hand. "Watch your step, baby. It could be a little slick."

Quinn shakes her head in amusement. "I think I can manage," she drawls, following Rachel to the car.

Hiram pops the trunk and begins maneuvering their bag inside while Rachel opens the passenger door and helps Quinn into the car. He closes the trunk in time to see his daughter crawling into the back seat, and he briskly rubs his hands together as he walks back to the front of the car.

After closing his door and turning up the heat, he pulls away from the curb and starts the journey home. "Did you girls have a good trip up?" he asks conversationally.

"We did," Quinn answers at the same time Rachel complains, "The train was a little on the chilly side."

"It was fine," Quinn contradicts.

"It could have been warmer," Rachel grumbles, crossing her arms. "I might just have to write a strongly worded letter to the MTA about the importance of climate control on their trains."

"You're not writing a letter," Quinn objects calmly.

Rachel shrugs. "We'll see about that."

Quinn ignores her, turning to Hiram with a smile. "Thank you for picking us up."

Hiram grins. "It's no trouble at all. I'm happy to get the extra twenty minutes with my two favorite ladies in the world."

They engage in some small talk on the way back to the house. Hiram knows that any really important subjects would only have to be rehashed once they get home to Leroy, so the expected mutual comments about the weather lead into Hiram telling them about the last storm and their crazy neighbor who'd climbed up onto his roof to shovel off the snow. Honestly, the man is lucky he hadn't broken his neck, but he'd certainly provided Hiram and Leroy with an hour of free entertainment as they'd watched him slip and slide and curse at the sky.

It's hardly a surprise to see his smiling husband already outside when he pulls into their driveway. "I hope you girls are prepared to be fussed over for the next twenty-four hours," Hiram warns them.

Quinn laughs. "He's hardly any worse than Rachel."

"Hey," Rachel protests lightly, leaning forward between the seats to address her wife. "You love it when I fuss."

"Occasionally," Quinn concedes, but the wide smile on her face makes it clear that she's teasing.

Rachel sticks her tongue out at Quinn before she leans back and throws open her car door to greet her dad, and Hiram hears the joyful, "Baby girl!" before Rachel is even out of the car.

Leroy wraps their daughter into a giant bear hug, nearly lifting her off the ground as Hiram and Quinn both exit the car.

"Oh, my darling, I've missed you so!" Leroy exclaims.

"I've missed you too, Dad," Rachel laughs.

Leroy releases her, leaning back to look her over with sharp eyes. "You look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?" he questions.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Yes, Dad."

He humphs. "I don't believe you. Quinn?" he calls out, addressing his daughter-in-law in a stern tone. "Are you making sure my baby girl gets at least eight hours of sleep a night?"

Quinn bites back a smile. "I do make sure she's in bed for at least that amount of time every night, yes."

Hiram barks out a laugh as he tugs the suitcase out of the trunk. "I'm sure you do, my dear." He's just not sure that Rachel is actually sleeping in that bed.

Leroy frowns at him. "Hush you." He smiles at Quinn, opening his arms. "Come here and give me a hug, gorgeous." Quinn does as she's told, receiving an equally fierce bear hug from Leroy.

"Dad, don't crush her," Rachel demands, immediately gravitating to Quinn's side as if she's afraid her father's enthusiastic greeting might actually break her wife.

Hiram frowns thoughtfully, and he notices his husband do the same thing as he releases Quinn, looking her over in much the same way he did Rachel before he smiles widely. "You seem sturdy enough to me. Maybe a little pink cheeked from this cold weather but very huggable." And then he hugs her again, though not quite as exuberantly, and presses a kiss to her cheek. "It's so very good to see you," he murmurs before releasing her. "Let's get you both inside and warmed up."

"Yes, please," Rachel agrees, hooking her arm with Quinn's as they follow Leroy into the house.

Hiram sets their suitcase by the landing of the stairs while Leroy collects the girls' coats and hangs them in the closet. "Go on into the living room and make yourselves at home," he urges.

Rachel leads Quinn down the short hallway before she stops, cocking her head as she gazes around the room in question. "Did you redecorate?"

"I only rearranged a few pieces of furniture," Leroy informs her as he comes up behind her.

Hiram chuckles from his husband's side. "And bought a new chair, two lamps, and a coffee table."

"We needed them," Leroy defends as he glides into the room and takes a seat on his new chair. "And they were on sale."

"The new arrangement gives the room a certain elegance," Quinn compliments, sitting gracefully on the sofa across from Leroy.

"Thank you, Quinn. I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Can I get you girls anything to drink?" Hiram asks before he sits. "Wine? Coffee?"

Rachel shakes her head, fidgeting noticeably in her seat next to Quinn. "No, thank you, Daddy."

"Quinn?"

"None for her either," Rachel answers distractedly.

"I know you're a little bit psychic, honey, but I didn't think that extended to mindreading."

Rachel blushes, dropping her eyes to the carpet, and Quinn chuckles. "It normally doesn't, but I'm fine. Thank you, Hiram."

"So what have you girls been up to?" Leroy asks, leaning forward in his chair with an eager grin. "Any exciting news to share?"

Quinn's eyebrow inches up and she glances at Rachel, whose eyes are wide. "Quinn finished her book!" she blurts out. "Just last week actually." She darts her eyes over to her wife and smiles. "Why don't you tell them about it, baby?"

Quinn's lips turn down into a frown for a few seconds before she sighs and turns her attention back to Hiram and Leroy, smiling apologetically. "I don't want to bore you…"

Leroy waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, honey, you won't. I love spoilers. Tell us as much as you'd like about…whatever you'd like. We have all day."

Hiram sinks down into his own chair as Quinn begins to give them a synopsis of her newest literary masterpiece, but his eyes keep darting to his daughter, who's chewing on her lower lip and twisting her wedding rings around her finger in a nervous habit that he recognizes from her childhood. He wonders what she has to be nervous about.

"It sounds fabulous," Leroy comments once Quinn has finished talking. "I can't wait to get my advanced copy."

Quinn chuckles. "I'll have one sent as soon as it's ready. It'll be a few months though."

"Oh, I'm sure those months will just fly right by," Leroy assures her with an eager grin before he glances at Rachel. "So, baby girl, you're being awfully quiet over there. Do you have anything to contribute to the conversation?" he prompts.

"Oh…um…well," Rachel stammers, looking over at Quinn. Hiram witnesses a silent conversation take place between them that's all raised eyebrows and tilted heads before Rachel reaches over to take Quinn's hand, taking a few deep breaths. "We actually do have some news."

An excited, "Oh," falls from Leroy's lips as he practically bounces in his chair, pressing his hands over his heart. Hiram has the distinct feeling that he's missing something important.

Quinn smiles encouragingly at Rachel, who responds with her own soft smile before she announces, "We're having a baby."

"I knew it!" Leroy crows. "The moment you arrived, I just knew you were going to make us granddaddies."

"You did not," Hiram challenges. He couldn't have. The girls hadn't even mentioned the possibility that they might be thinking about starting a family right now! Hiram absolutely does not want to admit that his husband might have picked up on something that he himself had failed to.

"I certainly did, Hiram," Leroy insists, gesturing to his daughter-in-law. "Why, just look at Quinn. She's absolutely glowing." And Hiram has to admit that his husband isn't wrong. Quinn looks positively radiant right now. "Oh, I'm so happy!" Leroy coos, standing up and reaching for Quinn with suspiciously glistening eyes. "Come here, my darling girl."

Quinn takes Leroy's outstretched hand, her own eyes glistening, and lets him pull her up and into a hug. "Oh, you're both going to be such a wonderful mothers," he says through his tears.

"Thank you," Quinn whispers, obviously touched.

Rachel is gazing at them with a mixture of pride and wonder—and maybe a trace of the nervous energy that Hiram had noticed earlier. "And you," Leroy breathes, loosening his hold on Quinn only to reach for Rachel. "My baby girl is having a baby of her own."

"Well, technically Quinn is having the baby," Rachel points out as she's enveloped in another bear hug by Leroy.

"Semantics," Leroy scoffs.

Quinn wipes away a happy tear from her cheek, chuckling. "More than you know."

"That's an unusually cryptic statement," Hiram notes, having stood from his chair and made his way to Quinn's side to get a turn at hugging the mother of his first grandchild. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and his heart swells with tenderness when Quinn turns and tucks herself into his chest in a loose embrace.

"Oh, stop being so contrary, Hiram," Leroy chastises. "This is a happy occasion. Why aren't you dancing around the room in celebration?"

"I think you're doing enough dancing for the both of us," he comments dryly. "But Leroy is right," he admits softly, gazing down at Quinn with affection. "You certainly are glowing, my dear." He presses a kiss to her forehead in the same gentle way he so often does with Rachel. His mind is already spinning with the realization that he'll soon have a tiny baby to hold and love and spoil rotten—if he can ever get him or her away from Leroy

"I think it's just happiness," Quinn muses.

"It's so much more than that," Rachel murmurs, gazing lovingly at Quinn as she extracts herself from Leroy's embrace. "Quinn has never been more beautiful than she is right now."

Quinn sniffles in Hiram's arms as a fresh tear of happiness spills over her cheek. "Oh, Rach," she whispers, reaching for Rachel's hand.

Hiram gives Quinn another gentle squeeze as he lets her go. "I certainly can't disagree. And you," he drawls, sliding a hand over Rachel's back and pulling her into his side, even as she keeps hold of Quinn's hand, "are a very sneaky daughter," he brushes a kiss across her temple, "not telling us that you were even thinking about starting a family."

"Well, we…we didn't want to get anyone's hopes up in case it...it didn't work out," Rachel admits.

"Perfectly understandable," Leroy dismisses with a smile. "Sit down, sit down," he urges Quinn, stepping to her side and taking her free arm. "You should be off your feet and resting."

Quinn laughs, shaking her head. "I'm fine, Leroy. It's still fairly early." But she does release Rachel's hand and allow him to guide her back down onto the sofa where he joins her, clasping her hand between his.

"He's going to be like this for the next six months, isn't he?" Rachel asks Hiram with an indulgent grin.

"Oh, undoubtedly. Six months, you say?" Hiram echoes. He's very good at math, so he realizes quickly that they'd probably waited to tell them the happy news until they'd made it safely through the first trimester. He won't claim that he isn't a little disappointed that they hadn't confided in their fathers sooner, but he certainly understands why they'd wanted to be cautious.

"The baby is due August 29th," Quinn confirms.

"That's a very good date," Leroy gushes. "The incomparable Ingrid Bergman was born on that day."

"And Richard Attenborough," Hiram adds. Leroy sends him a very judgy look. "What? He's a fine actor," he defends.

Leroy shakes his head. "Maybe if you discount those awful dinosaur movies."

Hiram frowns. "I liked those movies."

Leroy shrugs. "Well, I suppose that one actor was kind of cute. The one with the glasses…"

Hiram huffs, pushing up his own glasses with his thumb. "So, what did you mean earlier?" he asks Quinn, bringing the subject back around to more important matters. "About the semantics?"

Quinn smiles beatifically, gazing up at Rachel. "Go on and tell them."

Rachel runs her tongue across her lips, looking a little nervous again. "Well, Dad, Daddy, you see…Quinn wanted…that is,  _we,_ " she corrects a bit awkwardly, "decided to use my egg. So, while Quinn is the one who is experiencing all the joys of pregnancy, the baby is biologically mine," she reveals, much to Hiram's surprise and delight.

Leroy squeals, bouncing on the sofa and pulling Quinn into another hug. "Oh…oh Hiram…! Did you hear that?"

"I'm standing right here," Hiram quips, amused at his husband's antics.

"Oh, my girls," Leroy coos, reaching for Rachel's hand. "I'm going to cry. Hiram, be a dear and go and fetch the box of Kleenex."

Hiram shakes his head, but he has to admit that he's feeling a little moisture gather in his own eyes. He tightens his hold around Rachel's waist and rests his cheek against her head, already imagining another beautiful little version of her running around, singing and dancing and exploring everything with wide-eyed wonder and unrelenting curiosity. "My little girl is having a baby," he breathes. He can still remember holding Rachel in his arms when she'd been only hours old—the years have flown past with alarming speed, collecting memories and milestones like coins from a fountain.

It hits him all at once that his family is continuing on with a new generation. In six months, God willing, there will be a new person in this world for him to love and cherish, and he'll get to watch his daughter and her beautiful wife become the most amazing parents. His world is about to get just a little bit brighter, and it truly is a wonderful thing.


	30. Happiness Unbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A ficlet set after _Sometimes I'm Easily Fooled_ and _Before An Angel Growing Peacefully._

_You've found the place to walk the path you've chosen._  
_You'll never miss the world you left behind._  
_When life gives life, it's happiness unbroken._  
_When you give love, it's love you'll find._  
_~The Eyes Of A Child, Air Supply_

_xx_

They're having a baby girl.

Quinn can't wipe the smile from her face, and frankly, she doesn't want to. One palm has been curled protectively over the swell of her stomach ever since they'd stepped out of the doctor's office. The overwhelming, all-encompassing love that she'd felt at the sight of their baby moving on the monitor to the sound of a strong and steady heartbeat has only grown at the discovery that they're having a daughter.

A little girl.

There's only a tiny flutter of sorrow and regret seeping in around the edges of Quinn's joy at the knowledge that this pregnancy and everything associated with it has been so very much better than her experience with Beth, but the past is in the past and impossible to change. She has no choice but to look forward to the future and the daughter that she'll get to keep and raise.

Rachel is quiet at her side, her hand warm inside of Quinn's as they walk, and Quinn suspects that her wife is still in awe. They've been bantering back and forth for months about whether they would have a boy or a girl, and now that they know—well, it brings everything sharply into focus. There are no more hypotheticals, no more wondering which list of potential names they should concentrate on, no more neutral pronouns or Baby Berry to be used when talking about their child.

She squeezes Rachel's hand, and Rachel turns her head, her slightly dazed expression giving way to an irrepressible grin when their gazes connect. "Pink cigar for your thoughts," Quinn teases.

A giddy laugh slips past Rachel's lips. "Pink? Does that mean you've suddenly changed your stance on gender specific color schemes being a ridiculous construct of patriarchal capitalism?"

"Not exactly," Quinn admits. She never wants either one of them to turn into those mothers who pack their daughter's wardrobe full of pink, frilly dresses. "But I might make an exception here or there. I know it's one of your favorite colors." In fact, Rachel's cheeks are turning a nice, warm shade of it right now, and Quinn thinks it's lovely.

"Well, yes, but…I don't want to impose my own tastes onto our daughter," Rachel confesses, her voice going soft over the last word. "She can choose whatever color she likes best."

Quinn chuckles. "So…no yellow plaid skirts and kitten sweaters for our little girl?"

"Not unless that's what she wants to wear," Rachel finally concedes, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Quinn catches her lower lip between her teeth in an effort to suppress her smile as she pictures their daughter in various outfits, looking exactly like a miniature version of Rachel. "You know, she won't actually be able to make her own decisions for a while," Quinn reminds her wife cheekily. "I think we can get away with imposing some of our own tastes on her for the first few years at least. And your former style is actually really cute…on a toddler," she clarifies with a playful smirk.

Rachel gasps indignantly, reaching over with her free hand to lightly poke Quinn's shoulder. "I'll remember you said that the next time you want to bring our high school wardrobes out to play in the bedroom."

Quinn sighs, rubbing at her belly. "I doubt I'll be fitting back into any of my old clothes after this." She'd had to work her ass off for an entire summer to get her body back after Beth was born, and she'd been sixteen at the time. There's no way she's bouncing back from this pregnancy so easily. The thought of it only bothers her a little bit.

Shaking her head, Rachel squeezes Quinn's hand in reassurance. "Even if you can't, you'll still be the prettiest girl I've ever met."

Quinn will never tire of Rachel telling her that, but, "I don't know...our daughter might edge me out in a few months."

Rachel's smile is soft and adoring as she lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Quinn's knuckles. "She's the only one who ever could," she acknowledges.

Quinn's eyes grow watery—something that's been happening with increasing ease lately—and she chuckles, absently brushing a stray tear from her cheek. "You know, there's a Babies R Us at Union Square," she reminds Rachel. They're not very far from there, having decided to walk a few blocks and enjoy the fresh air after their appointment before flagging down a taxi to take them home. "I think our daughter really needs something in yellow plaid."

Rachel's eyes sparkle, and the smile that lights up her face is blinding. "And a sweater with a kitten? Or maybe a carousel horse. Oh…or an owl," she suggests excitedly.

Quinn rolls her eyes, realizing that she's just set Rachel on the road to recreating her youthful wardrobe—all with Quinn's full approval. "Why don't we just see what we find," she cautions as they turn in the direction of the store, but her own excitement is growing with every step they take just thinking about shopping for their daughter's first outfit.

She wonders if they sell baby-sized cardigans…


	31. Share This Secret For A Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A _Don't Blink_ side story. Sarah/Josie ficlet set after _This Time I'm Gonna Slow It Down_ on the Deveright timeline.
> 
> Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

_This moment shaking in my hands,_  
_I'll share this secret for a chance_  
_just to be here with you,_  
_just to get lost with you._  
_~After You, Meg Myers_

* * *

She's sitting in her office, staring at her notes for the messy divorce case that she's working on, but her mind is so far away from unhappy endings and disintegrating relationships right now that she can't really concentrate. When Josie had decided to pursue family law, she'd been hoping to focus more on the ability to help people start their families rather than end them, but she can't really avoid the unfortunate side of her chosen field. One of the things that had enticed her to join this firm late last year was the promise of pursuing more adoption, surrogacy, and child welfare cases than divorces, but Frank had asked her to work with him on this case, and you don't really say _no_ to a senior partner—not if you have any aspirations of becoming a partner yourself one day. And Josie does.

But right now, the aspirations crowding her mind are of a far more personal variety—like how to convince Sarah Cartwright to take a chance on romance with her.

Logically, Josie understands Sarah's hesitation. Sarah isn't planning to stay in New York forever; she can't make any promises; she's been disappointed by love in the past; she doesn't want to get involved with one of her ex's friends. Emotionally, however, Josie is so not onboard with any of that crap.

She's suffered through a few of her own heartbreaks over the years, but that doesn't stop her from trying. Josie really just wants to grab Sarah and kiss her until the stubborn woman can't remember any of the reasons she has for thinking they shouldn't be together.

That flutter of attraction that Josie had felt on New Year's Eve has only grown stronger over the last four months. It's surprised her as much as it's thrilled her and frustrated the hell out of her, but Sarah is just so _comfortable_. She knows if she says that out loud, Sarah would probably take it the wrong way, but for Josie, it feels pretty close to perfect. She's had some experience with the kind of attraction that's big and loud and reckless—a fire under your skin that makes you itch and ache and yearn until you're doing the stupidest things—but this is different. It feels more like coming home, slipping into a favorite, soft pair of pajamas, and sinking into your truest self until you never want to leave the moment. It's a very different kind of yearning.

Sarah is smart and sweet and so passionate about her interests, and there are moments when Josie is certain that she feels that passion aimed directly at her through Sarah's shy glances. She really believes that they could have something amazing if only Sarah would agree to try.

They'd almost kissed two weekends ago after they'd gone biking. The day had been gorgeous and so had Sarah. Her nervousness at being back on a bike had faded fairly quickly, and Josie had been treated to the sight of her sparkling eyes and carefree smile as she'd taken in the sites of the city from a very different perspective. Josie hasn't deluded herself into thinking that Sarah had instantly changed her opinion on Manhattan, but she hadn't seemed to dislike it quite so much in those hours that they'd spent together.

They'd flirted through their lunch—well, Josie had flirted while Sarah had blushed endearingly—before Josie had ultimately won their battle over the bill. And then there was that moment at the end of the day, after they'd returned Sarah's bike to the rental shop, when Josie had leaned in and nearly kissed her. She'd wanted to. God—how she'd wanted to! That single, fleeting kiss on New Year's Eve was barely anything at all but still more than enough to make her crave another taste. But Josie wants their next kiss to be the first of many more to come, not a rushed, stolen moment with the potential to send Sarah running, so she'd changed her trajectory at the very last moment and settled for a hug instead.

Who is she kidding? Their almost-kiss had already sent Sarah running. Josie had asked Sarah to lunch twice last week and been refused both times with the excuse of being swamped with work, and Sarah had declined an invitation to visit the Strand with her on Saturday, claiming she'd been busy with a project. Josie doesn't doubt that Sarah is busy with her job, but it's starting to feel like she's purposely avoiding her, especially after she'd turned down another invitation to lunch just yesterday.

Josie really can't do this anymore. When she'd set out to become Sarah's friend, she'd honestly thought she'd be content with just that, but the more time they spend together, the more she's convinced that Sarah could be the woman for her. If there's really no chance they'll ever be anything but friends, then Josie needs to know so she can try to redraw that hazy line that she'd already stumbled over months ago.

Giving up on her notes for the moment, Josie reaches for her phone and dials the number that's become very familiar to her, waiting for the call to be picked up. It takes four rings before she hears Sarah's voice, "Thank you for calling Skidmore, Owings and Merrill. Sarah Cartwright speaking. How may I help you?"

Josie grins despite the heaviness of her own thoughts. "You could save me from eating lunch alone," she teases, but she suspects that Sarah can easily hear the hopefulness in her voice.

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Josie hears what she thinks is a sigh. "I wish I could, but…"

"You're busy," Josie finishes for her with a frown, slumping back in her chair in defeat.

"I really am," Sarah confirms softly. "The firm started a huge restoration project last week in addition to the Chelsea Blue construction, and there's so much to be done. I'm going to be working really closely with Matt on the exterior designs for this one."

Josie's lips quirk into a small smile. "That's awesome, Sarah," she says earnestly. She's happy that Sarah's boss seems to value her talent—it bodes well for her future at the firm, even if Sarah is still planning to use the experience she gains there as a springboard into a reputable firm in Michigan.

"I'm really excited about it," Sarah confesses.

"I'm glad. Maybe I could take you out to celebrate?" Josie suggests, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. "When do you think a good day would be for us to get together?"

There's that damned silent pause again. "I...don't really know. It's kind of hard to predict my schedule right now."

Josie refuses to be deterred. "If lunch is bad for you, how about dinner? Whatever night you're available," she adds quickly.

"A…a friend dinner?" Sarah asks hesitantly.

Josie really wishes she'd refilled her coffee cup—or grabbed a bottle of water to keep at her desk—before she'd made this call, because her throat is suddenly dry, and she could really use a drink. "If…that's all you want it to be," she offers tentatively before taking a breath and taking the plunge. "But Sarah…the truth is…I really like you. A lot. I'm also very attracted to you, and I would love to take you out on a real date and see where it leads," she confesses.

The silence is really not her friend.

"I feel like there's something there between us," Josie continues gently, "and I think you feel it too, but if I'm wrong about that then just tell me now, and we can forget I ever said this and just have a friend dinner." Which is kind of a lie, because Josie knows that neither one of them will be forgetting this conversation happened, but she'd rather have Sarah as her friend than not at all.

When Sarah finally responds, her voice is barely more than a whisper. "You're not wrong."

Josie can't suppress her smile at the confession, and a flutter of happiness erupts in her belly. She's relieved to finally have the verification that this attraction between them isn't one sided. "I think we could have something really great, Sarah. Do you think you can give us a chance?"

The whispered, "Yeah," is more than enough to have Josie grinning like an idiot, and Sarah follows it up a second later with an even more certain, "Yes."

"Good. That's really good," Josie murmurs, closing her eyes in contentment. She has a really, really good feeling about this—like Sarah just might be the woman Josie can build a life with. Sarah _is_ an architect, after all. Building things is kind of what she does. "When can I take you out?" she asks hopefully.

There's a little pause again, and Josie can almost picture Sarah nervously scraping her teeth over her lower lip. Even the imaginary version of it is adorable. "I guess…Saturday will work," Sarah finally agrees.

Josie throws a fist up in triumph, leaning back in her chair just a second after she pushes it off in a half spin. "Perfect," she gushes, planting her feet back on the floor and attempting to regain a little decorum instead of getting up and dancing around her office like she really wants. "I'll call you later and we can talk about the details, okay?"

"Okay," Sarah agrees, sounding a little more confident—a fact that makes Josie really happy.

"I'll let you get back to work now," she offers reluctantly. Lord knows she has her own pile of work to sift through. "Goodbye, Sarah. We'll talk soon," she promises.

Josie listens for the soft, "Yeah. Bye, Josie," and the click of the phone before she finally hangs up hers. Then she continues to ignore her work to sneak onto the internet and start researching first date ideas for a Saturday afternoon.

She intends for it to be the first of many.


	32. Play It Good and Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A _Don't Blink_ side story. Sarah/Josie ficlet set after _Share This Secret For A Chance_ on the Deveright timeline.
> 
> Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

_This is a state of grace._  
_This is the worthwhile fight._  
_Love is a ruthless game_  
_unless you play it good and right._  
_These are the hands of fate._  
_You're my Achilles heel._  
_This is the golden age_  
_of something good and right and real._  
_~State of Grace, Taylor Swift_

* * *

"What am I doing?" Sarah laments, collapsing back onto her bed and pressing a clammy palm to her forehead.

" _Is that rhetorical?"_ comes the familiar voice on the other end of the phone currently pressed to her ear _. "Because I thought you were getting ready for your date with the gorgeous, successful lawyer."_

"Don't remind me," Sarah mutters, feeling anxiety twist her stomach into knots all over again. Josie is supposed to be here to pick her up in less than an hour for their outing, and Sarah had almost called her twice already to cancel. Instead, she'd called Hannah, her best friend since elementary school, to stop her from chickening out.

" _My gosh, Sarah Jane. To hear you talk, someone would think this is the worst thing in the world that could happen to you. You know, I still have that picture you sent me of Josie in the bicycle pants, and I have to tell you, hun, if I was into women even the tiniest little bit, I'd be taking that one out for a nice, long ride."_

Sarah frowns at the insinuation, not liking the imagery despite the fact that Hannah is just about the most heterosexual woman that she's ever known—and very happily engaged to a wonderful man. "You know why I have reservations about this," she reminds Hannah, letting her hand fall limply onto the mattress.

Hannah has already heard the entire list of reasons why Sarah shouldn't even consider dating Josie Deveraux. Josie is everything that Sarah shouldn't want—an outgoing, athletic theater fan who loves to dance and has a tattoo! It's an admittedly sexy tattoo, but it's still a tattoo. Sarah is neither athletic nor much of a dancer, she's a self-admitted introvert, and her opinion on the theater, especially theater of the musical variety, hasn't exactly been a popular one in the past.

The fact that Josie is so much more extroverted than anyone Sarah has ever attempted to date in the past is more than a little intimidating, but what really has Sarah hesitating is the fact that all of Josie's family is entrenched in Boston, and most of her friends can be found scattered between Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and Eastern Pennsylvania. Her roots are even more deeply embedded in east coast soil than Quinn's had been, and that can only lead to more heartbreak for Sarah down the line.

And, of course, there's the not-so-little stumbling block of Josie's friendship with Quinn—Sarah's ex. Sure, Sarah and Quinn have made some progress at reestablishing a friendship of their own, but they don't exactly hang out, and when they do see one another, it's still a little awkward in light of Quinn's current relationship with Rachel fucking Berry.

How can Sarah dating Josie be anything but awkward for all of them?

There's an audible sigh from Hannah _. "I know, but it's not like you're planning to marry the woman. Why shouldn't you go out and have a little fun?"_

It's a perfectly reasonable question. Sarah doesn't actually want to spend the next two years living like a hermit just because she isn't planning to settle down in this city permanently, but there's a little voice in her head that keeps whispering that Josie isn't just some woman she can _have a little fun_ with.

For as much as Josie is everything that Sarah _shouldn't_ want, she also possesses a whole lot of really amazing qualities that Sarah admires. She's compassionate, intelligent, patient (most of the time), and honest, occasionally to a fault—which might be considered kind of odd for a lawyer. She's also gorgeous and incredibly sexy—not that Sarah is typically swayed solely by physical attributes, but she's got two eyes in her head with 20/20 vision and an undeniable appreciation for aesthetics.

Josie is also what Hannah would consider _fun_ , but—

"I've never been particularly good at fun," Sarah admits sadly.

The closest she's ever come was the summer she'd spent working for her aunt in Saugatuck, and that was mostly because a blonde named Bailey had tripped Sarah up and sent her tumbling face first into the realization that she's gay. Bailey had been _fun_ too—confident and gorgeous and patient with Sarah—and Sarah had been too young and too confused to think much about the fact that Bailey was never going to be one half of a permanent relationship. Even so, saying goodbye to her at the end of the summer had been hard, and Sarah had been left to mourn the loss of what they _had_ shared in the short time they'd been together.

Just like she had with Ashley (who'd dumped her one semester into college), and— _God_ —Quinn (who'd she'd let go because she knew she'd never come first), and Emily (who didn't think their arrangement was worth keeping up once Sarah left New Haven). The idea of doing that all over again with Josie—

She doesn't even want to think about it.

" _That's bull-cucky,"_ Hannah chides, _"pardon my French. You're loads of fun, Sarah, and I'm sure Josie would agree with me. So get out there and ride that redhead."_

Sarah barks out a laugh, shaking her head. "You've got such a dirty mind for someone who never swears. Why am I even friends with you?"

" _Because you need someone to remind you how awesome you are…and push you to get off your cute backside and out into the big, exciting world."_

Sarah smiles a little sadly, closing her eyes. "I really wish you were here."

" _Hmm,"_ Hannah hums in her ear. _"You know, usually you say that the other way around. I guess this Josie has really got you confuzzled, huh?"_

Sarah sucks in a sharp breath, realizing that Hannah is right. She _does_ usually say that she wishes she was there—in Michigan. "I haven't changed my opinion on New York, if that's what you're getting at."

" _Of course not,"_ Hannah agrees a little too cheerfully, _"but at least you're finding a few…ah…hobbies to enjoy while you're there."_

"Is that what we're calling it?" Sarah asks wryly, pushing herself up unto a sitting position.

" _Yep. Now…on to more important topics. What are you wearing for your date?"_

Sarah glances down at her body. "Um…jeans and a button down."

" _Oh, Sarah,"_ Hannah murmurs. _"Honey, no. Go change. Right now."_

Sarah frowns. "It's a nice button down," she argues, running her fingers over the lightweight, turquoise shirt.

" _I'm sure it is, but the jeans have got to go. It's a date, for heaven's sake."_

"A casual date," Sarah insists. "Josie told me to dress comfortably."

" _Can't you be comfortable in something else? Maybe a nice pair of slacks or Capris or something? I know you own dressier clothes. You can't be wearing jeans to work."_

"I'm not," Sarah concedes, running a palm over the soft denim self-consciously, "but I think Josie knew what she was getting when she asked me out." Even so, Sarah finds herself getting up off the bed and padding over to her small closet to absently browse through her dress slacks while Hannah continues to talk.

" _I suppose you're probably right,"_ Hannah offers, sighing. _"I was just trying to help you knock her socks off…and any other article of clothing you might want to knock off later."_

Sarah's hand stills on a pair of tan Capris and her face heats at the image that appears unbidden in her mind, crafted as it is on the memory of Josie's body in a sports bra and skin-tight bike shorts—that vibrant tattoo on full display.

"I…I don't think I'm ready for that," she denies quickly, "but maybe I will change into something a little cooler. It's pretty warm here today."

" _And you'll call me as soon as you get home?"_ Hannah urges _. "Because I want to hear all about what your lady lawyer has planned for you….the G-Rated version anyway."_

Sarah rolls her eyes at that. "I doubt there'll be any other version, Hannah." It is only their first date after all.

" _I_ _guess we'll find out,"_ Hannah muses slyly. _"Good luck, Sarah."_

"Thanks, Han," Sarah says before they bid each other goodbye and disconnect the call.

She tosses her phone onto the bed before she toes off her shoes and unzips her jeans, pushing them down over her hips and stepping out of them. She reaches for the Capris, pulling them off the hanger before sliding them on, and then she retrieves a pair of simple, white deck shoes from the bottom of her closet to replace her sneakers before walking over to the mirror to examine her reflection. The new outfit is still casual, but she supposes it is a little more flattering and—well, date-like.

And on that note, Sarah doesn't think that her beloved messenger bag is really date appropriate, and unfortunately, these pants aren't nearly as compatible with her cellphone, the slim wallet she carries, and her keys as her jeans are, so she's stuck with the one small purse that she actually owns for occasions just like this. She stuffs her meager belongings inside, and then she takes them out again to try her pockets anyway, only to frown because— _no_ —that really doesn't work. She's forced to go back to the purse again, making sure the strap is long enough to be comfortable when it's slung across her body in the same manner she likes to wear her messenger bag.

When her phone starts buzzing, Sarah digs it back out of the purse to see Josie's number flashing on the screen, and her stomach drops. The first thought in her head is that Josie has changed her mind and is going to be the one to cancel their date. Sarah isn't all that surprised by how upset the thought makes her.

Answering the call, Sarah offers a hesitant, "Hello."

"Hi, Sarah," Josie greets her warmly. "Are you ready? Because I'm kind of double parked in front of your building…at least I think it's your building...and I don't know if I should leave my car here for more than a minute or two so I can come up and properly collect you like a chivalrous date should."

Eyes widening, Sarah finally looks at the clock. "Oh," she breathes, rushing into her roommate's bedroom. They have a corner apartment, and Erika (who is currently at the hospital where she works as a nurse) happens to have the front-facing window. Glancing down at the street, Sarah does indeed see a stylish, black BMW double parked with its flashers on. "You're a little early," she points out needlessly.

"It's a bad habit," Josie admits, humor in her voice. "You'll get used to it. So should I come up?"

"No. I'm ready," Sarah tells her, taking a breath for courage. "I'll just come down."

Disconnecting the call, Sarah makes sure the apartment door is locked behind her before she flies down the stairwell to meet Josie. Her steps falter slightly when she reaches the street and sees Josie out and standing in front of her car with a warm smile, her eyes traveling over Sarah with obvious appreciation. Sarah can't deny that she's doing the same thing as she takes in the scoop-necked, olive Henley, with enough open buttons to tease the world with a tantalizing glimpse of Josie's cleavage. It's tucked neatly into white shorts that fit Josie perfectly, showing off her long, muscular legs.

Sarah swallows down a giggle at the errant thought that Josie isn't actually wearing very many clothes for Sarah to knock off, sure that her cheeks must be bright pink right now. Hannah would be having a good laugh if she was here.

With a grin on her lips, Josie takes a step forward, meeting Sarah by the passenger door. "Hi, stranger," she jokes, blue eyes sparkling with good-humor as she envelops Sarah in a brief, chaste hug. Sarah hugs her back, though she can't help feeling a lance of guilt at the reminder that it's been a few weeks since they've seen one another. She'd been purposely avoiding Josie in her misguided attempt to ignore the attraction between them.

"Hi," she responds as she steps back, shoving her hands into her pockets in a nervous habit that she's never quite been able to kick. "You, um…you look…really good," she says, blushing even more at her typical ineloquence.

"Thanks. So do you," Josie responds with a smile, letting her eyes roam over Sarah once again. "That color is perfect on you, Sarah," she compliments.

"Thank you," Sarah echoes back, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets and averting her gaze to the pavement.

Josie's shadow moves around Sarah' feet before her gaze lifts to find Josie holding open her car door with a smile. "Shall we?"

Sarah bites her lip, nodding, before she slides onto the leather seat. She shifts her purse into a comfortable position and reaches for her seatbelt as Josie gently closes the door behind her, and then she watches Josie jog around the car to the driver's side, checking for traffic before she gets in.

"Nice car," Sarah comments when the engine purrs to life and the touchscreen lights up, showing off dozens of luxury add-ons and gadgets. She tends to forget that Josie comes from a wealthy family until something like this car reminds her.

Josie flashes a grin in her direction. "Thanks. It's pretty high up on the list of environmentally friendly models."

Sarah can't help smiling at that. The fact that Josie cares about those things is one of the reasons Sarah lo— _likes_ her so much.

"So where are we going anyway?" Sarah asks. When Josie had called her to finalize a time, she'd only told Sarah to dress comfortably and wear decent walking shoes, but when Sarah had asked her what they'd be doing, Josie had told her she'd have to wait and see.

Josie spares a quick glance to Sarah as she maneuvers the car through Queens and towards the parkway. "You'll see," she teases. "But I think you'll like it. At least I hope you will, and if you don't," she shrugs, "I'm sure we can find something else that we'll enjoy."

Sarah doesn't doubt it—she enjoys Josie's company no matter the setting. She'd even enjoyed biking the greenway despite her general unathleticism. It's one of the many reasons that she's been reluctant to acknowledge the attraction she feels to Josie, because if this doesn't work out, she could potentially end up losing one of the few friends she has in this city outside of her workplace—or at least irrevocably changing the nature of their friendship into something more awkward than Sarah's normal awkward.

"I guess I'll have to trust you," Sarah muses as she gazes out the windows, trying to figure out what direction they're headed at least.

"You can, you know," Josie promises softly with her own eyes dutifully on the road. "Trust me," she adds in a way that almost makes it seem like a hopeful plea, and Sarah is struck again by the quiet vulnerability that occasionally appears around the edges of Josie's typical confidence.

"Yeah, I know," Sarah murmurs, sneaking a peek at Josie's profile to see the soft, content smile on her lips.

"So…tell me more about that restoration you're working on," Josie says after a moment.

Sarah smiles, feeling her excitement about the project bubble to the surface and into words—happy to talk about the plans to rehabilitate the old Hotel Keller. To her credit, Josie listens with interest, chiming in to ask questions and make comments as she drives them into Manhattan.

They've been talking for a good twenty minutes when Sarah notices the road signs for the George Washington Bridge, and she frowns. "We're not going to Jersey, are we?" she asks, glancing at Josie.

"Not today," Josie answers with a laugh, "but for future knowledge, do you have something against New Jersey?"

"No," Sarah answers, drawing out the word. "I'm just trying to figure out where you're taking me."

Josie glances her way with a grin. "We're almost there," she promises, and soon enough she's taking an exit for 181st Street and following signs for Fort Tryon Park.

"The Cloisters," Sarah realizes delightedly.

Josie nods. "You mentioned that you hadn't had the chance to visit yet," she says, referring to the offhanded comment Sarah had made when they'd passed by the grounds on the bike trail. "I thought we could spend the afternoon exploring the museum, maybe walk through the park a little before I take you to dinner. How does that sound?"

A shy smile pulls at Sarah's lips. She's tickled that Josie would remember the single remark that Sarah had made about The Cloisters being on her list of landmarks to eventually visit and had actually planned their first date around it.

"It's perfect," she responds, blushing when Josie sends another smile her way and catches her staring.

"I'm glad you approve."

Biting her lip, Sarah turns her attention to their surroundings as Josie drives through Fort Tryon Park on the way to the medieval-styled building and surrounding gardens that serves as a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her leg bounces in anticipation as they claim a space in one of the surrounding parking areas, and she's so glad that she'd charged her phone battery before Josie had picked her up. As much as she enjoys looking at art, it's the architecture of the museum itself that she's most eager to see up close and in person.

Sarah is out of the car the moment Josie kills the engine, and Josie shakes her head in equal parts amusement and exasperation as she gets out of the driver's seat. "No need to rush. It's open until five fifteen," she informs Sarah with a teasing smile.

"And it's already after one. You really should have picked me up first thing this morning," Sarah fires back.

Laughing, Josie holds up her hands in mock surrender. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

The thought of _next time_ when they're still at the beginning of _this time_ has Sarah's stomach dancing with butterflies—but there's art and architecture and history to be explored now, so she ignores her nerves and reaches for Josie's hand, clasping it firmly, much to Josie's surprise. "Let's go. We're losing daylight."

With a happy laugh, Josie nods, squeezing Sarah's fingers as they begin to walk. The feeling of their hands seamlessly curled together causes a warmth to blossom inside of Sarah that has nothing to do with the perfect spring day, and she bites into her lip to keep from smiling too widely.

The grounds themselves are lovely—a peaceful, secluded haven at the edge of the city—and the museum rises up from the surrounding trees like a castle, thrusting its visitors back in time. Sarah feels giddy just looking at it from here. It's neither an exact reconstruction nor a completely original design but a perfect marriage of the two, incorporating salvaged pieces of five French abbeys into a new structure by Charles Collens.

Sarah's phone is out and set to the camera function almost as soon as they start walking. Josie indulges her with a grin every time she stops to snap a few photos, pausing to examine the brickwork more closely while other people pass them by with puzzled expressions on their faces. Sarah is used to getting those looks from people when she stops to admire things that they just don't consider interesting, but she feels a little guilty for subjecting Josie to them. Strangely enough, Josie doesn't seem to mind much.

When they finally arrive at the entrance, Josie already has the tickets that she'd obviously preordered for them out and ready to be presented, and Sarah grins at the evidence of Josie's secret penchant for meticulous preparation. It's a good quality for a lawyer to have, after all, but at first glance, Josie seems like a free spirit—Sarah might have uncharitably thought of her as a bit of a flake back at Yale based in large part on her Anthropology major and her blasé attitude about most things—and in many ways, Josie absolutely _is_ spontaneous and laid back ninety percent of the time, but she's also the woman who'd sat for the New York bar exam in addition to Massachusetts _just in case_ and passed them both with apparent ease. It's an odd dichotomy that Sarah finds herself undeniably drawn to.

Once they're inside the museum, Sarah takes a moment to simply absorb the atmosphere. The interior only adds to the sense of being inside a medieval abbey. While Sarah can't say that she's ever been overly religious, she can certainly appreciate the imagery present in both the architecture and art. That feeling of being transported in time is even more pronounced in here—despite the very modern patrons in their shorts and flip flops with smart phones out as they discreetly snap pictures of their surroundings.

Sarah would love the opportunity to have this place all to herself for a few hours. (She may or may not also be entertaining some of her adolescent fantasies involving leather pants, chainmail, and a sword strapped to her side. Josie could be her damsel in distress—who would probably kick her ass for even daring to imagine her as a damsel in distress.)

Josie stays close enough to be within speaking range as she lets her own attention wander around the exhibition. Sarah appreciates that she doesn't try to rush her through the rooms or hover too close to her side and attempt to analyze every piece they encounter. There is conversation though—about the museum in general and the art and a surprising number of personal anecdotes peppered in whenever a particular thing inspires them.

They spend quite awhile admiring the famed unicorn tapestries, but instead of discussing what the imagery might mean or what order they were actually meant to be hung in, Sarah learns that Josie has Shel Silverstein's poem, _The Unicorn_ , mostly memorized, and Sarah has to stifle her giggles as Josie very seriously recites some of it as they move from tapestry to tapestry.

Eventually, they make their way outside onto the Bonnefont Cloister to explore the gardens. Josie's hand slips back inside of Sarah's as they stand on the patio and take in the view of the nearby Hudson River through the trees.

"It's really beautiful," Sarah admits, forgetting for a moment that New York City exists in the other direction.

"Yeah, it is," Josie agrees, but when Sarah turns to look at her, she finds that Josie's gaze is solely on her.

Drawing in a breath, Sarah ducks her head and lifts a hand to nervously tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're supposed to be admiring the view," she chastises self-consciously.

"I am," Josie insists with a soft smile.

Sarah imagines her face is probably a nice shade red right now. Her first instinct is to brush off the compliment. She's never been very good at accepting them, and a part of her can't help wondering what Josie actually sees in her when there are dozens of attractive men and women who would jump at the chance for a date. But there's another part of Sarah that's delighted by the attention, and she makes a conscious decision to focus on that for a change.

"You're really not holding back that Deveraux charm anymore, are you?" Sarah muses.

Josie's light laughter tickles Sarah's ears. "So you think I'm charming," she challenges playfully, leaning closer.

Sarah moistens her lips, gazing into clear, blue eyes that almost sparkle in the sunlight. "Charming enough to get me here," she admits.

Josie's mouth slowly curves into a smile. "I'm really glad you said _yes_ ," she murmurs softly, those eyes searching hers.

Sarah's heartrate picks up. "I'm glad I did too," she confesses just as softly.

Josie's gaze dips down to Sarah's lips, and Sarah's stomach swirls with nervous anticipation, certain that Josie is going to lean forward and kiss her now. But then there's a burst of childish laughter from several feet away as a young boy chases his brother around the garden before being scolded by his father, and the interruption forcibly jerks them out of the moment. Sarah feels the weight of disappointment settle over her when she realizes just how badly she'd wanted that kiss—enough that she'd forgotten that they're far from alone out here.

Josie clears her throat and smiles at Sarah. "So…do you want to walk around the museum some more? Or are you ready to grab some dinner?"

Glancing at her watch, Sarah realizes that they've been here over three hours already, and since she'd skipped lunch courtesy of her nervous stomach, she's suddenly aware of just how hungry she is. They've managed to explore just about every nook and cranny of The Cloisters except for the surrounding park, but, "We can always come back in the future." Sarah doesn't miss the way Josie's smile widens at the prospect. Suppressing her own smile, Sarah decides, "I want to see what you have planned next."

Josie squeezes her hand, grinning. "Oh, I have a lot of plans for you, Sarah," she promises a little impishly, making Sarah's stomach flip, "but first, I thought I'd take you to Le Chéile. It's this amazing, vegetarian friendly Irish Pub that I found not long after I moved here," she shares, adjusting her hold on Sarah's hand and wordlessly urging her into motion.

"Sounds good. I'm starved," Sarah confesses, matching Josie's pace as they make their way back through the museum, though she does pull Josie to a stop a time or two as she pauses to snap some more pictures.

Soon enough, they're back at Josie's car, where Josie once again makes sure to hold the door open for Sarah. Usually, Sarah finds that she's the one doing things like that out of sheer politeness, so to be on the receiving end of Josie's good, old-fashioned courtesy is a little strange to be honest. Strange, but nice.

It turns out the restaurant isn't very far from Fort Tryon Park—only about a ten minute drive with traffic—and Josie manages to find a parking space on the street just a block away. Le Chéile (and the spelling on the signage looks nothing like Josie's pronunciation of Leh Kayla) occupies a corner building, and the brickwork is painted fuchsia with blue trimmed windows. Sarah is a little skeptical about the color scheme, but Josie seems excited to share the place, so she's willing to give it a try.

The colors extend inside to a degree, but they're toned down by the dark wood bar and tables and the dozens of pictures lining every inch of the walls. It doesn't exactly thrill Sarah's sense of aesthetics, but the delicious mix of savory scents filling the air does a whole lot to make up for that. If the food tastes as good as it smells, she'll be very happy. She even kind of likes the lively Irish music currently filling the restaurant.

They're led up a fuchsia stairwell to the upstairs dining area with its dim lighting and neat rows of tables set with candles. Upon opening the menu, Sarah discovers that they have a wide variety of foods to choose from—from traditional Irish fare to burgers and sandwiches to the typical American staples like salmon, chicken, and steak. And yes, there's a section of vegetarian options and a sandwich called the vegan. The place seems to have all of its bases covered.

"I know it's not much to look at, but the food is delicious," Josie promises.

"I don't know. There's a certain charm to it," Sarah concedes, glancing around. The eclectic décor is kind of growing on her. "I bet this place is packed on St. Patrick's Day."

"Oh, it is," Josie agrees with the confidence of someone who has firsthand knowledge. "But not just on St. Patty's Day. They have live music in the backroom after five and occasionally some open mic nights." She chuckles when she notices Sarah's mild frown at the mention of the open mic. "Mainly Irish folksongs. There's not a lot of Broadway here," she explains knowingly.

Sarah somehow doubts that would stop someone like Rachel Berry from commandeering the microphone and belting out a few show tunes. She really hopes she'll never have to find out. "How often do you come here?" Sarah asks curiously.

"Not often, really," Josie answers with a shrug as she peruses her menu. "This is only my fifth time since I stumbled over it in November."

"So…about once a month," Sarah determines with a wry smile.

"No," Josie denies with a grin. "I totally skipped January."

Shaking her head, Sarah turns her attention back to the menu, debating between the grilled chicken and the salmon; although the Irish stew is tempting being that this _is_ an Irish pub. When their waitress arrives, Josie orders the spaghetti Louise with a Guinness, and Sarah finally decides on the grilled chicken with a salad and a glass of the house white wine. She's never really had much of a taste for beer.

"So now I'm wondering," Sarah begins once the waitress collects their menus and leaves, "I always thought Deveraux was French, but you could definitely pass for having an Irish heritage."

"What would possibly make you think that?" Josie asks in amusement, idly twirling a strand of red hair around her finger.

Sarah laughs. "Oh, I don't know…maybe it's your Irish eyes."

Josie leans forward with a playful grin, elbows on the table. "Are they smiling?"

"They usually are," Sarah admits with a blush.

"Probably because they're looking at you," Josie explains without missing a beat, and yeah—Sarah walked right into that one.

"That was kind of cheesy," she accuses, rolling her eyes in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

Josie's rich laughter rings out over the music. "Well, I do love cheese," she admits as the waitress returns with their drinks, setting them down on the table. Josie reaches for her mug, taking a sip of the amber liquid, and Sarah decides to do the same with her wine.

"To answer your question," Josie says after setting her drink back down, "Deveraux does have French origins since the first clan was originally from Normandy, but it's technically an English surname, and a branch of the family did end up migrating to Ireland. And, you know, my mother's maiden name was Kelley, so there's that," she adds with a smirk.

Sarah runs her tongue across her lips as she contemplates the information, tasting the sweet remnants of her wine. "Why do I have the feeling someone in your family did one of those genealogy studies?" she asks after a moment.

Josie laughs again, nodding. "My mom," she reveals, rolling her eyes indulgently. "She and my grandmother had one done for the Kelley side of the family when she was still in highschool, so of course, she felt duty bound to complete one for my dad's family when she married into it."

"I actually think that's pretty awesome," Sarah tells her, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. "I mean, it is your family history."

Josie's smile softens, and she cocks her head to the side as she studies Sarah with a thoughtful expression. "You and my mother would probably get along famously," she murmurs, almost to herself, before shaking her head. Sarah might wonder whether or not that's a good thing if she didn't know that Josie loves her mother dearly, eccentricities and all—even though a moment later Josie is laughing and waving her hand dismissively. "You know, except for the whole crazy event planner thing she has going on."

"I imagine your birthday and graduation parties were epic, in any case," Sarah offers.

Josie nods. "Yeah. They were. But now she's a little too eager to start planning my engagement party and wedding."

Sarah sucks in a breath, nearly choking on it. She exhales a whispery, "Oh," before reaching for her wine.

Josie laughs. "My _hypothetical_ engagement and wedding. Really, Sarah," she scolds mischievously, "this is only our first date."

A nervous laugh slips out around the rim of Sarah's wine glass as she lowers it. "I knew that," she insists. "I'm just surprised she'd be thinking about that already when you…I mean…you're single."

"For now," Josie acknowledges. "Technically," she qualifies with a pointed look that practically steals Sarah's breath once again.

There's a silent promise in Josie's expression that belies the innocent words, and Sarah's fears and insecurities begin to bubble back to the surface. The idea of Josie's mother getting along with Sarah or being eager to plan a wedding only makes Sarah remember that whatever relationship she might be beginning with Josie right now probably has an expiration date. She doesn't want to think about it, but it's always there in the back of her mind nevertheless.

Josie seems to sense Sarah's discomfort, so she laughs off her own words. "But Charlotte Deveraux is nothing if not ridiculously over-prepared for any and every social event."

The waitress returns then with Sarah's salad, and Sarah is grateful for the distraction. Thankfully, Josie changes the subject with a safe comment about how good the salad looks and how she should have ordered one for herself. Sarah politely offers her a taste, which Josie accepts, reaching across the table to take a forkful—and okay, maybe sharing their food isn't actually all that safe after all. Still, it offers a springboard onto other subjects when Sarah muses out loud that, as much as she enjoys vegetables, she can't imagine adopting a vegetarian diet the way Josie has, and that has Josie launching into a discourse on the health benefits and the numerous meat substitutes that are almost as good as the real thing. Sarah highly doubts that could possibly be true.

She thoroughly enjoys her chicken breast, but Josie's pasta looks and smells incredible, so when Josie returns the favor of offering a taste, Sarah accepts, humming in pleasure as she savors the zesty garlic and olive oil based sauce. They both pass on dessert, but they linger for a while longer over drinks and conversation, and when the bill comes, Josie is quick to snag it.

"I invited you," she reminds Sarah with a smile. "And this _is_ a date."

 _An amazing date_ , Sarah amends silently.

They've been together half the day, but the time has flown by so quickly, and Sarah finds that she isn't quite ready for it to end yet. She has a feeling that's going to be a reoccurring sentiment with Josie, and she thinks again that Hannah was wrong—Josie is going to end up being so much more than someone Sarah can _have a little fun with_ or _take for a ride_ or any ofher other euphemisms for a casual relationship.

When they exit the restaurant, Sarah starts to turn in the direction of Josie's car, but Josie catches her hand and stops her, grinning when Sarah looks at her questioningly. "It's such a nice evening. Why don't we take a little walk to work off some of our dinner?"

Sarah doesn't think that Josie really has to worry about working off a few extra calories—her body is perfect—but since she's not in a hurry to see their date come to an end, and Josie obviously isn't either, Sarah says, "Okay."

This part of Washington Heights isn't much to look at really, mostly non-descript apartment buildings with some shops at street level, but it is a nice evening—warm with a mild breeze, and the sun is beginning to dip down close to the horizon. Josie's hand feels so good in hers as they walk down 181st Street. The road soon begins to curve, and a small bit of the Hudson River comes into view, making the scenery suddenly more appealing. Near the end of the next block, the street splits into two divided one-way sections with trees planted in the center plaza, and as they walk past it toward Riverside Drive, the Hudson River comes fully into view, complete with the tree-lined New Jersey shore and the majestic George Washington Bridge stretching over to it.

"Wow," Sarah breathes in appreciation as she takes in the sight.

"I thought you might like the view from here," Josie comments, squeezing her hand.

"You thought right," Sarah admits with a smile, wondering if Josie had purposely planned them to be right here in front of this spectacular view at sunset. Knowing her, she probably had.

"Come on. Let's cross over," Josie urges, careful to check Riverside Drive for traffic before leading Sarah across to a tiny observation deck right there at the intersection of 181st Street. With Washington Heights now mostly at their backs, they're standing in one of those spots (much like The Cloisters had been) that can almost make Sarah forget that she's still in New York City.

The orange glow of the setting sun is dancing over the trees and reflecting off the water, and Sarah feels a sense of tranquility settle over her. She can almost imagine that she's back in Michigan—if not for the traffic flowing nonstop over the bridge. In any case, the bridge is a magnificent piece of engineering with a beauty all its own.

Giving into her curiosity, Sarah braces a hand against the concrete wall in front of them, glancing down the short drop to the roadway below. She's not sure what the name of the road is, but there's a walking path along the side of it that's lined with treetops rising up from the hillside beyond. Sarah ducks her head down further, studying the outside of the wall they're standing behind and noticing the markings in the concrete that make it obvious there used to be a stairway here that lead down to the road.

"They took out the stairs and put in a pedestrian walkway over the highway," Josie says knowingly, and Sarah leans back to look at her, a little surprised that she's so attuned to her thoughts. "But they left the upper landing intact, and now it makes a nice little lookout point," she finishes with a grin.

Sarah returns the grin before she glances down Riverside Drive to see that the footbridge isn't very far from where they are now, and it connects to the walking path that runs along the road below them. "Does that lead down to Fort Washington Park?" she asks, looking back at Josie. They'd briefly stopped there on their bike outing to see the Little Red Lighthouse.

"Yeah," Josie verifies with a nod. "We can walk down if you want."

"In a bit," Sarah decides. "I think I'd like to stay here for a few more minutes." The view is flawless, and so is the company, and, surprisingly enough, there's currently no one else around other than a few walkers down on the path below them.

"We can stay as long as you like," Josie promises with a soft smile.

Sarah can feel the perfection of the moment settle over them—the brilliance of the sun dipping under the horizon, the breeze off the water, ruffling golden tipped waves and sweeping through Josie's hair, and the warmth of Josie's hand almost matching the warmth of her smile. Sarah is hardly what anyone would consider a romantic, but if ever there was a perfect moment for Josie to kiss her, it would be now.

Josie's lips pull into that same slow smile that she'd worn at the Bonnefont Cloister just before they'd been interrupted—which is when Sarah realizes that she's staring at Josie's mouth. Blushing, Sarah lifts her gaze to find Josie watching her intently.

Sarah instinctively shuffles closer, hardly realizing that she's done it, and Josie draws in a breath, her eyes darkening. "I really want to kiss you," she murmurs—the request for permission is clear in her voice.

"I think I really want you to," Sarah confesses a little breathlessly. Maybe it's not the wisest decision when she's still worrying about all the ways this could blow up in her face, but for this single moment in time, she doesn't much care.

Her words are all it takes for Josie to close the small distance that remains between them. The hand that's been holding Sarah's hand shifts, changing position so Josie can entwine their fingers together, and Josie's other hand flutters at Sarah's waist, tentatively curving over her hip in the lightest of touches. And then she's leaning forward to hesitantly brush her lips over Sarah's mouth in a sweet, innocent kiss that's only slightly more substantial than the one they'd shared on New Year's Eve.

Sarah's stomach dips and swirls pleasantly at the contact, and her free hand twitches, lifting aimlessly—completely undecided as to whether it wants to curl around Josie's waist or cup the back of her neck to keep her mouth right where it is forever. In Sarah's indecision, Josie pulls back from the kiss, gazing down at her with questioning eyes.

The only answer Sarah gives is to lift her hand and thread her fingers into thick, red hair, urging Josie back to her and kissing her without an ounce of hesitation. The nimble fingers curved at Sarah's waist curl into a belt loop and tug Sarah closer while Josie's talented (oh, sweet lord is it ever talented!) mouth presses more confidently against hers, offering her a tantalizing taste of what Josie could accomplish with it if they weren't in a public place.

Sarah can't remember the last time she'd been kissed this way. She doesn't think she's _ever_ been kissed this way—by a gorgeous woman under a dazzling sunset with a perfect view in front of them. Even if this does end up leading her into yet another heartbreak somewhere down the road, Sarah wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

Oh, she's so, _so_ screwed.

When Josie finally abandons her lips, it's to grin down at Sarah with sparkling eyes. "I've been wanting to do that since New Year's Eve," she admits unabashedly.

Sarah moistens her lips, feeling embarrassingly hot all over and a little bit dizzy. Her hand slips away from the nape of Josie's neck, falling to rest on the curve of her hip instead. "I thought you were just observing tradition that night."

Josie smiles an endearingly crooked grin. "I might have fibbed a little. I thought you were adorable, and I wanted to kiss you," she confesses with a shrug. "Midnight was the perfect excuse."

"And there I was, thinking you were so honest and sincere," Sarah manages to joke.

"I am," Josie insists, lifting her hand from Sarah's waist to gently brush back a stubborn strand of brown hair that's currently being teased mercilessly by the wind. "Mostly, anyway," she qualifies, her smile widening. "But I _am_ a lawyer. We're pretty good at finding those loopholes."

Sarah laughs and shakes her head. "And arguing your case apparently."

"What can I say? I like to win," Josie tells her, trailing the backs of her fingers over Sarah's cheek, "especially when I believe in what I'm fighting for."

And yeah—Sarah is so very, very screwed. She doesn't think there's any way to stop herself from falling hard for this woman.

"We should…um…head down to the park," she suggests, taking a deliberate step back in a vain attempt to slow this back down, though one hand stays firmly entwined with Josie's. "I'd like to see the lighthouse again."

Josie only looks a little bit disappointed as she lets her hand fall back to her side, quickly covering it with her familiar, easy smile. "Of course. Whatever you want," she promises as they turn for the street.

Sarah's emotions are dancing all over the place, and she still doesn't know what the hell she's doing. Her desire to see where this thing with Josie could go is still very much at war with her fear of how it will eventually, almost certainly end, but maybe—if it means having Josie for even just a little while—Sarah can learn how to enjoy today and worry about tomorrow when it comes.


	33. This Lovely Easter Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A short fababy ficlet set after _Forget the Wrong That I've Done_ and _I'll Pick A Star From the Sky_. Written around Easter but I'm finally archiving it now.

_I could hardly wait to keep our date_  
_this lovely Easter morning._  
_~Easter Parade, Judy Garland_

* * *

"Your mama's a little crazy, isn't she?" Quinn whispers to her daughter, a soft smile on her face as she gently bounces Callie in her arms. Wide, hazel eyes sparkle with delight—Quinn is only a tiny bit disappointed that they haven't darkened into a deeper brown—as Callie coos out an unintelligible answer, a little bubble of drool forming at the corner of her mouth thanks to that first tooth that's been trying to cut its way through her delicate gums for days now. Grinning, Quinn lifts the edge of the yellow bib (with a smiling white bunny embroidered on the front) away from her matching yellow dress to gently wipe away the spittle.

"I heard that, Quinn," Rachel admonishes, glancing back at them from her position on top of a chair where she's attempting to hide a plastic, neon pink, Easter egg on the top shelf of their bookcase. "And you're supposed to be distracting her. How can I prepare a successful Easter egg hunt when you're allowing our daughter to watch me hide them?" she asks indignantly, shaking her head. "I knew I should have had you take her out for an hour or two," she grumbles.

"Rachel, sweetie, she's only seven months old," Quinn reminds her laughingly. "She can't exactly go on an Easter egg hunt by herself anyway. And why are you even hiding one up there?"

"I'm hiding a few for TJ and the adults too, Quinn. It's only fair," Rachel explains, before she carefully climbs down from the chair.

"Well, TJ might enjoy it if you'd put some candy in them, but I somehow doubt the rest of our friends and family will be interested in hunting for empty eggs," Quinn notes dryly before grinning back down at their daughter. "And you'll probably be more interested in chasing after Ollie, won't you, sunshine?"

Callie's squeal sounds like a _yes_ to Quinn, and she laughs. Poor Oliver still doesn't quite know what to make of the baby, especially when she decides to exercise those lungs she most definitely got from Rachel, and he still seems a little lost in the new apartment from time to time, but he's mostly settled down and is now handling everything with his typical indifference.

Quinn glances lovingly at her wife as she settles down beside them on the sofa. Rachel smiles indulgently at Callie as she reaches over to brush a gentle finger over her tiny nose—Rachel isn't at all disappointed that their daughter didn't get hers. Quinn can already see so much of Rachel in Callie that the few little things she didn't inherit probably won't make much of a difference. Their daughter is going to look just like her mother, and Quinn couldn't be happier.

"My pretty girl," Rachel murmurs adoringly. "Mommy is raining all over your Easter parade."

Quinn's smile slips at the subtle jab while Callie giggles happily at Rachel. "I'm not," she argues. "But you have to admit that the Easter egg hunt is just a little advanced for her at this point."

"That's what you said about the Easter parade," Rachel reminds her with a pout.

"Did you really want to be out there battling the crowds with a stroller and a seven month old?" As much as Quinn wants to rush into every holiday with childlike glee now that they have a child of their own to experience them with, she really doesn't want to subject their precious daughter to the craziness of holidays in the city until she's a little bit older.

Rachel sighs dramatically. "I suppose you're right," she concedes reluctantly before smiling again. Leaning into Quinn, she lifts a hand to delicately fuss with the soft, dark curls over their daughter's forehead that always seem to be in disarray. "Today is pretty perfect just the way it is."

Quinn couldn't agree more. She has a beautiful wife and daughter to spend the day with, both of whom she loves with all of her heart, and while Rachel is certainly still busy working on her first album, her extended break from Broadway means she's actually home with them more often than not. Rachel's fathers are driving down for the day; Quinn's mother, nephew, and even her sister are staying at a nearby hotel—and okay, maybe having Frannie here won't make today _perfect,_ but she's been so much more bearable since the divorce—and their friends are all coming over for dinner. Best of all, with the exception of her mother and sister who are bringing the wine, they're all bringing their own dishes to add to the meal so all Quinn has to worry about is the ham, which is already in the oven, the tomato and mushroom quiche for Rachel, and the salad.

"But next year, we're going to the parade," Rachel decides.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," Quinn agrees with a grin, already making her own decision that Rachel will be the one carrying Callie through the streets of New York next year. "Now make yourself useful while I check on the ham," she orders, dropping a kiss to the top of Callie's head before passing her into Rachel's waiting arms.

"Poor defenseless Piglet," Rachel laments to Callie. "Whatever will Pooh say?"

"Oh hush, you," Quinn hisses playfully as she stands from the sofa. "You'll scar her for life."

"Mommy is a stubborn carnivore. Yes, she is," Rachel coos in her baby voice. "But you won't be, will you, pretty girl? No, you won't."

Quinn rolls her eyes at her wife's antics, but her heart is full to bursting at the sight of them together. It's hard to believe that Rachel had ever had a moment's doubt about becoming a mother. She's so natural with their baby girl, and Callie adores her.

"I really love you," Quinn murmurs with a besotted smile.

Rachel flashes a grin in her direction. "We really love you too, terrible eating habits and all." Callie squeals delightedly, waving her little, fisted hands in Quinn's direction as she grins toothlessly up at her. Everything is right with Quinn's world—at least until their guests arrive and turn their apartment into a circus, but even that will be pretty damned perfect.


	34. One Sweet Angel Sleeping In My Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Berrymen fababy ficlet by request set after _Forget the Wrong That I've Done_ and _I'll Pick A Star From the Sky_ and before _This Lovely Easter Morning_.
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.

_Midnight moonlight shining through the curtain lace_  
_Paints a perfect picture on your perfect face_  
_One sweet angel sleeping in my arms_  
_You are the promise I knew God would keep_  
_You are the gift that makes my world complete_  
_~Angel's Lullaby, Reba McEntire_

* * *

Leroy Berry has a lifetime of memories—good, bad, painful, bittersweet, and euphoric. There are the ones he'll never forget and the ones he wishes he could; the ones that have faded around the edges over time and the ones that are still as crisp and clean in his mind as if they'd happened only yesterday. And so many of his very best memories are centered around his beautiful baby girl.

He's been the best father he could be—he and Hiram both—but he knows that it hasn't always been enough. They'd missed moments they shouldn't have missed, always blaming their careers or some opportunity they couldn't refuse, and they will never be able to replace the absent memories of performances and school plays and dance recitals that they'd never seen. Still, somehow, despite the mistakes and the missteps that they'd made along the way, he and Hiram had managed to raise a beautiful, brilliant, loving, successful daughter.

And she'd snagged herself a beautiful, brilliant, loving, successful wife who'd given her a beautiful, brilliant, loving, (and undoubtedly successful-one-day) daughter of her own.

Leroy doesn't intend to miss a single important moment with his grandbaby—even if it means stealing her away from his husband.

"You've monopolized her for twenty minutes already, Hiram. It's time to share," he insists, reaching out his aching arms.

Hiram rolls his eyes. "Twenty minutes is barely a drop in the bottomless ocean of time. Is it, my little bubbeleh?" he coos down at the wide-eyed baby in his arms.

"It's a pretty big drop when your ocean is drying up," Leroy mutters. "We're not getting any younger, you know."

"Well, I know you certainly haven't gotten any more patient in your old age," Hiram teases mildly.

Leroy frowns at the implication that he's old, but his irritation quickly fades when Hiram moves to gently pass the baby over to him. His fingers nearly itch in anticipation as he carefully scoops up his perfect granddaughter. A gurgling cry comes tumbling out of tiny bowed lips, and Leroy is quick to snuggle her into his chest. "It's okay, sugar plum. Pappy's got you."

"Pappy?" Hiram asks in amusement, pushing his glasses higher on his nose with his index finger.

"Yes," Leroy confirms, grinning down at Calliope as she gazes up at him with curious eyes. "I've decided _you_ can be grandpa. Pappy is much more dignified." _And far less aging_ , he thinks.

"How do you figure?" Hiram asks with laughter in his voice.

Leroy pulls his gaze away from the baby just long enough to send his husband a scornful look. "It just is," he says by way of a certainly unnecessary explanation.

Hiram outright laughs at that. "Whatever you say, dear," he concedes as he leans into Leroy's side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders so they can both gaze adoringly down at Calliope in her little, yellow onesie.

She already has a full head of dark hair, and Leroy can just tell she'll have the same natural curls and waves that Rachel does, though she still battles against them with endless conviction. As he studies the shape of her eyes and mouth and her round little cheeks, he can almost convince himself that he's traveled back in time twenty-eight years.

"Oh, Hiram," he breathes reverently. "Look at her. She looks just like our Rachel."

"Except for the nose," Hiram murmurs in agreement, reaching out to stroke a gentle finger over Calliope's and receiving a happy coo for it.

"I'm sorry you couldn't pass that along to another generation," Leroy offers with playful gravitas.

"Funny," Hiram responds dryly. "Just for that I think I'll have to teach her to call you _Gramps_."

"You most certainly will not," Leroy scolds in horror. He's far too young to be a _gramps_. Well—maybe not in _actual_ years but certainly in mentality. Why, he's still in the prime of his life!

Sensing his dissatisfaction with the unsavory moniker, Calliope begins to fuss a bit in his arms. That simply won't do—after all, he and Hiram happily volunteered to watch over her for a few hours so Rachel and Quinn can catch up on some much needed rest. They're currently napping in the bedroom, and that door is a paltry barrier to dampen Calliope's cries should she decide to really exercise those lungs of hers.

"Uh oh…now you've done it," Hiram warns.

" _I_ have?" Leroy whispers incredulously, trying not to upset his granddaughter more but failing when her fussing turns into actual (thankfully, still low-intensity) cries.

"Well, _you're_ the one holding her, _Pappy_ ," Hiram points out in that calmly superior way of his that never fails to frustrate Leroy—when it isn't turning him on, that is.

Huffing, Leroy adjusts his hold on Calliope, rocking her gently as he begins to hum the way he used to whenever his baby girl looked to be on the verge of a crying jag. The combination of the motion, the vibration of his chest, and the melody begins to calm Calliope almost instantly.

Leroy's humming turns into a more familiar tune, and soon he's softly crooning the age-old lullaby.

" _Twinkle twinkle, little star._  
_How I wonder what you are._  
_Up above the world so high,_  
_like a diamond in the sky._

 _When the blazing sun is gone,_  
_when he nothing shines upon,_  
_then you show your little light._  
_Twinkle, twinkle all the night._ "

Hiram joins in halfway through as they sing their granddaughter to sleep, and when their sweet duet ends, Hiram presses a kiss to Leroy's cheek. "You've still got it."

" _We've_ still got it," Leroy corrects, smiling at his husband.

Hiram grins back before dropping his eyes down to the sleeping baby. "We've been truly blessed," he muses, and Leroy knows he isn't talking about their exceptional singing voices or even their way with fussy babies. They're blessed because of their wonderful family, and for a time, they simply sit there in silence and enjoy the gift they've been given.

"Do you think they'd notice if we just take her home with us?" Leroy eventually wonders. He loves the weight of a baby in his arms again, surrounded by the sweet scent of baby powder and new life.

Hiram chuckles. "I think they might. Then again, they both seem pretty exhausted," he considers, tapping a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "They might appreciate the extra sleep."

Leroy laughs quietly, careful not to disturb Calliope. "They're new mothers. It's par for the course."

Judy had stayed with the girls for the first two weeks to help them get acclimated, and of course, he and Hiram have made themselves available at every opportunity—even Shelby and Beth have offered their help where they can—but he knows that Rachel and Quinn are still trying to settle into a routine that doesn't leave them both constantly sleepless and frazzled while they learn to take care of their daughter's needs. They have more than enough love to give her, but it's the time and energy that always seems to be in short supply with a newborn. Even so, they're both proving to be wonderful mothers, and Leroy can only imagine that they'll continue to get even better at it over time. He's so incredibly proud of them both.

Hiram sighs wistfully. "I remember when we first brought Rachelah home. She wouldn't stop crying."

"She certainly got an early start on developing those lungs of hers," Leroy acknowledges, feeling his eyes grow moist as a thousand memories of his baby girl when she was still his _actual_ baby girl fill his mind. "Oh, I miss those days."

"I miss _things_ about those days," Hiram admits, "but never sleeping through a night is not one of them."

Leroy chuckles again. "Touché." As much as he wants to take Calliope home with them and never let her go, there are certainly parts of caring for a newborn that he's not eager to revisit on a permanent basis. He decides then and there that he's perfectly happy being a doting grandfather this time around.

He loses track of how long they've been sitting there, but it's long enough for soft gray eyes to flutter open again and tiny lips to smack before Calliope begins to vocalize softly with some coos and gurgles. He and Hiram are both so enraptured by every little movement and noise that their granddaughter makes that they both fail to hear the bedroom door open and close—only realizing it had happened after Rachel pads into the room in her wrinkled t-shirt and shorts.

"Hey," she greets them sleepily, leaning over the side of the sofa to get a better look at her daughter, who is now fully awake, waving her arms, and squealing at the sight of her mother. "Is she okay?"

"She's perfect," Leroy assures her. "But what are you doing awake, baby girl? You're supposed to be napping."

Rachel shrugs. "I managed a short one, and Quinn's still sleeping," she informs them, smiling tenderly at the mention of her wife. "But I know this one will be looking for food soon," she says, gently scratching at her daughter's belly to Calliope's delight, "so I thought I'd get a bottle ready."

"We could have done that, Rachelah."

"I know, Daddy," Rachel admits, standing up straight once again, "but Callie always seems to be fussier when we have to use the bottle. She prefers Quinn's…um," she hesitates, vaguely gesturing to her chest while her cheeks grow a bit pink.

"Her breasts," Hiram supplies easily, and Leroy stifles his laughter. Rachel blushes a little more, silently nodding. For all her confidence, talking about her wife breastfeeding their daughter with her gay fathers seems to have left her tongue tied.

"Like mother like daughter," Hiram observes with a sly grin.

"Daddy!" Rachel reprimands sharply—though not nearly as loudly as she certainly would have if Quinn wasn't sleeping in the next room and Calliope wasn't right there.

"Don't tease her, Hiram," Leroy admonishes, barely containing his own amusement. "It's undoubtedly difficult for Rachel now that she has to share."

Rachel gasps in mock indignation, planting her hands on her hips amidst Hiram's laughter. "Dad! You too?"

"Sorry, baby girl," he apologizes laughingly, rocking Calliope in his arms as she squeals happily—seemingly laughing right along with her grandfathers. "Your daddy is obviously a very bad influence on me."

"You're both being terrible influences on my daughter right now," Rachel chastises, crossing her arms sternly.

Hiram pushes up his glasses again. "In the immortal words of Dr. Lopez…we're just keeping it real."

Leroy groans, shaking his head at his husband's sudden adoption of that terrible colloquialism, and Rachel frowns at them both. "Please don't ever, ever say that again," she pleads.

"I think I can promise you he won't," Leroy vows, sending his husband a challenging look.

Hiram holds out his hands in supplication. "Hey, we've gotta stay young and _in the know_ somehow now that we're grandpas," he explains.

"Young and vital grandpas," Leroy quickly corrects.

Rachel's posture softens as she gazes at them with a loving smile on her lips. "The best grandpas," she declares with an affectionate smile, stepping around the sofa so she can lean down to press a kiss first to Leroy's cheek and then to Hiram's in turn. "And the best dads."

Leroy sniffles, feeling the moisture in his eyes spill over as his heart swells with love for his family. "Oh, we love you, baby girl."

"I love you too," she murmurs, her smile widening when Calliope squirms in Leroy's arms in an attempt to get closer to her mother. "And I love you, my pretty girl," she coos adoringly, laying a gentle hand on top of the baby's head as she squats down to press a kiss to her forehead.

And oh, his baby has a baby of her own, and she's such a wonderful mother, and now Leroy is a blubbering mess of big, warm, fuzzy feelings just looking at mother and daughter together.

"Maybe you should take her before your Dad drowns her in tears," Hiram suggests lightly, though his own voice is a little choked up. "I can warm up the bottle," he promises, standing from the sofa and placing a kiss to the top of Rachel's head before he retreats to the kitchen, discreetly wiping a tear from the corner of his eye beneath the frames of his glasses.

"I think she does want her mama," Leroy concedes soggily, noticing the way Calliope's little fist is wrapped around a strand of Rachel's hair. "Don't you, sugar plum?"

Calliope lets out a squeal, and Leroy and Rachel both shush her at the same time. Rachel carefully disengages her hair from her daughter's grasp before she moves up onto the sofa and slips her arms under Calliope's tiny body, lifting her out of Leroy's arms. The emptiness left by the loss of that beloved weight is instantly filled by the look in Rachel's eyes—still so very tired but shining with the kind of everlasting devotion that comes with the unconditional love of a parent for a child—and Leroy presses a hand to his heart as he takes in the sight.

Rachel gently rocks Calliope in her arms, smiling blissfully down at her daughter. "There's my little star. Were you a good girl for grandpa?"

"Pappy," Leroy corrects firmly. Rachel quirks an eyebrow at him, channeling her wife, but Leroy ignores it. "We've decided on pappy," he explains.

Rachel stifles a giggle, pursing her lips as she nods resolutely. "Pappy, then," she accepts, gazing back down at Calliope.

"She was an angel."

Still smiling at her daughter, Rachel nods. "I thought I heard her start to cry earlier. I was ready to run for her, but then she quieted down." She glances up at Leroy again with a grateful expression. "Thanks, Dad. You have no idea how exhausted Quinn has been. She really needed this afternoon."

"Just Quinn?" he asks knowingly.

Grinning sheepishly, Rachel admits, "Both of us." Then she's gazing at Calliope again with a tired sigh. "It can get pretty overwhelming sometimes."

Leroy wraps an arm around his daughter's shoulders, tucking her against his side. "I know, baby girl, but your daddy and I are happy to help out whenever we can. That's what family is for," he reminds her, happily gazing down into the beautiful face of his family's next generation.

It's a moment he knows he'll count among his happiest memories for years to come.


	35. You Look Wonderful Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** This was intended to be a Faberry Anniversary ficlet but it transformed into a short pre-Tony thing instead. Set after _Forget the Wrong That I've Done_ and before _I'll Pick A Star From the Sky_.
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.

_It's late in the evening; she's wondering what clothes to wear._  
_She puts on her make-up and brushes her long blonde hair._  
_And then she asks me, "Do I look alright?"_  
_And I say, "Yes, you look wonderful tonight."_  
_~Wonderful Tonight, Eric Clapton_

* * *

Her show is dark today. In fact, _every_ show is dark today. It's the second Sunday in June, and Rachel is nominated for her third Tony award. She'd lost the first and won the second, and tonight could swing either way. She wants to win, obviously—she's Rachel Berry, and she'll never lose her competitive spirit—but this year, she feels a sense of accomplishment with her work and with her life in general that's almost better than winning any award.

The role she's playing now belongs to her alone—born from rough words on a page and nurtured with Rachel's breath and sweat and tears. There's nothing Rachel would love more than to punctuate her first original role in her first original show with a shiny new statuette on her shelf.

In two months, she'll bid adieu to Iris and say hello to a brand new role—one that will be hers for the rest of her life.

Rachel is still kind of terrified about it, but thankfully, that's not the dominating emotion—well, not anymore. Now there's mostly the blissful anticipation coursing through her veins at the thought of finally meeting her daughter, and, of course, the love and adoration that she feels for her wife that keeps growing bigger everyday—right along with Quinn's cute, pregnant belly. She's learned to keep that last part to herself though. As happy as Quinn has been in her pregnancy this time around, there are still moments when her mood swings all the way back to her bitchiest temperament—the one that had Noah Puckerman hiding in the boys' locker room to avoid her during the last few months of her pregnancy with Beth.

Rachel is made of stronger stuff.

Still, the frown currently on Quinn's face as she fusses with her green maternity dress in front of the full length mirror sets off a warning bell in Rachel's head. It's the same frown Quinn had worn the day her favorite pair of pre-pregnancy jeans would no longer zip—right before she'd burst into tears.

"I'm not going," Quinn announces with a tremor in her voice, tugging again at the front of her dress where the fabric is a bit tight over her belly. "You can take Beth as your date. Or Santana," she suggests despondently. "She probably has some sexy little dress that she doesn't have to squeeze herself into with a shoehorn."

"Santana has to squeeze into all of her dresses with a shoehorn. It's kind of her thing," Rachel points out with a laugh while she fastens her earring.

"And of course you notice that," Quinn growls, crossing her arms over her pronounced baby bump as she turns to glare at Rachel.

"Well, it's been fairly hard to miss," Rachel admits carefully, having realized just a tiny bit too late that she should have addressed Quinn's insecurities immediately before making a joke about Santana's fashion choices. "But Quinn, baby," she soothes, stepping closer to her wife and raising a hand to gently cup her cheek, "I don't want to take Santana to the Tonys. Or Beth. Or anyone else. I want to take _you,_ my gorgeous wife whom I love with all of my heart." And maybe she's purposely adding a little extra sweetness to her tone but that doesn't make her words any less sincere.

Quinn sniffles, uncrossing her arms and letting them fall listlessly over her belly. "You _have_ to say that because I'm pregnant," she grumbles forlornly. "But my ankles are swollen and my face is puffy and I'm huge and clumsy and gross."

"I think you're beautiful," Rachel murmurs lovingly, brushing back a strand of Quinn's hair from her temple. "You were beautiful when you were pregnant with Beth, and you're even more beautiful now."

She isn't exaggerating even a little bit. There's never been a moment when Rachel hasn't seen Quinn as the most beautiful woman in the world, but now, knowing that Quinn is pregnant with _their_ baby makes her even more unspeakably lovely to Rachel's eyes.

"I'll be so proud to have you standing at my side today; for the whole world to see the stunning woman who agreed to marry me and carry our child, but if you really don't feel up to it, I…I guess I can go by myself," Rachel offers with a pout, already hating the idea of not having Quinn next to her. "Even though I really want you to be there to hold my hand and keep me from making a scene if I lose."

Quinn bites into her lip, reaching out to grasp Rachel's hand. "You're not going to lose," she vows quietly.

Rachel shrugs. "If I do, the cameras will catch me looking sad and pathetic with an empty seat next to me. Everyone will probably think I've been abandoned by my wife before we've even reached our two year anniversary." And it's only five days away. Rachel can almost see the comments on that chatboard that Quinn doesn't know she still checks from time to time—that handful of posters who keep wondering how Rachel managed to land such a gorgeous wife and insisting that divorce is just around the corner despite Quinn's very obvious pregnancy.

"Are you actually trying to guilt me into coming with you?" Quinn asks with a frown that's twitching suspiciously around the edges.

"Is it working?" Rachel counters with a hopeful grin.

A tiny smile curves Quinn's lips before it's snuffed out, and still-shiny hazel eyes drop back down to her midriff as she tugs at the dress again. "I look awful," she mutters. "This dress isn't fitting right."

Rachel sighs, running her hands over Quinn's belly and feeling a tiny prickle of disappointment to find their daughter is currently sleeping quietly beneath Quinn's taut skin. "Don't let Kurt hear you say that," she warns, sliding her fingers up to trace the silky ribbon that runs beneath the bodice of Quinn's dress.

"Kurt's never been seven months pregnant," Quinn hisses sourly. "I don't really give a crap if I offend him."

Rachel gently tugs at the fabric, adjusting it slightly beneath her wife's breasts before fanning out the pleats of the skirt. "You loved this dress two weeks ago," she reminds Quinn, "and this color is perfect on you," she muses, admiring the way the dress now falls artfully from the empire waist over Quinn's pregnant stomach. "You look amazing."

"I look fat," Quinn whines stubbornly.

Rachel shakes her head, stepping aside and gently turning Quinn back to face the mirror before standing next to her and gazing at their reflections. "You look radiant," she whispers reverently. "And you still take my breath away every single time I look at you, Quinn. Now more than ever," she says, placing her left hand over the swell of Quinn's stomach—her own eyes growing a little moist, "because I'm looking at everything that matters most to me in this world."

Tears spill over Quinn's cheeks, and she lifts a hand to brush them away, shaking her head. "And now my makeup is a mess too," she laments.

"I can fix it," Rachel vows, moving with the intent to grab some tissues from the dresser, but Quinn stops her by catching her hand.

"I love you," she says simply, smiling softly through her tears.

"I love you too," Rachel echoes sweetly as she steps back to her wife, cupping her cheeks so she can urge her down into a tender kiss. When they part, Rachel grins up at her. "And I'd love you to be my date for the Tonys."

Quinn sighs. "Well, I suppose I am already dressed for it," she concedes.

"Yes, you are," Rachel agrees triumphantly. "And it would be a shame to waste such a lovely dress."

Quinn takes a deep breath, smoothing her palms down over the fabric of her dress again as she gives her reflection another critical once over in the mirror. "Do I really look okay?" she asks again, worrying her lip—obviously still insecure. "Other than my makeup," she amends.

"You look wonderful," Rachel promises earnestly. "What about me? How do I look?"

Hazel eyes travel up and down over Rachel's body before Quinn shrugs. "You'll do," she decides before turning to pick up her makeup bag to touch up her eyes.

Rachel frowns. "Wait. That's it? I'll do?" she questions incredulously, eyeing herself in the mirror. "Is this dress not flattering?" she worries, turning from side to side to study the black and white, patterned material. "I knew I should have gone with the gold. Do I need to change?"

Quinn's airy chuckle instantly draws Rachel's attention back to her, and Rachel is relieved to see Quinn smiling again. "You're perfect," Quinn promises, lifting a hand to tenderly stroke Rachel's cheek. "Absolutely perfect," she repeats before leaning in to kiss her wife.

And yeah—right now, Rachel _is_ absolutely perfect.

She's even more perfect several hours later when she's bringing home her second Tony award, but while adding that statue to her shelf certainly makes her night, the very best thing she'll ever bring home is Quinn and their soon-to-be-born daughter.


	36. Never Nothing Less Than Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Judy/Fababy/Faberry ficlet by request. Set after the ficlet _I'll Pick A Star From the Sky_ and before the ficlet _One Sweet Angel Sleeping In My Arms_.
> 
> It's been awhile since I've written anything. Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.

_And when you cry_   
_I'll be there baby_   
_Telling you you're never nothing_   
_Less than beautiful_   
_~Angel Standing By, Jewel_

* * *

Judy is fully aware that she hasn't been the best mother in the world, but she likes to believe that she's turned out to be a pretty decent grandmother. TJ hasn't seemed to have any complaints so far, even though he's sneaking up on that age when it's really not cool (as they say) to _like_ hanging out with your grandma.

It's still hard with Beth—with the distance and the strangeness of Shelby Corcoran between them—but Judy is trying.

She silently vows that she's going to do so much more than try with the precious little baby girl in her arms right now.

When Quinnie had first announced her second pregnancy to Judy, her joy had been nearly tangible, even through the jumpy connection of the video chat, so Judy could be nothing but happy for her. All of her old, ingrained concerns about her daughter's lifestyle and the difficulties she was inviting and what a family should look like had faded in the light of Quinn's hopeful eyes, quietly begging her mother for a positive response. Judy had found it remarkably easy to give her one.

It had become a little less easy when Quinn had gone on to tell her just how she and Rachel had accomplished the pregnancy.

Judy still doesn't quite understand the mechanics of it all, and frankly, she doesn't _want_ to think too deeply about that part. The whole endeavor had seemed—well—a little bit unnatural.

She'd managed to stop herself from ever saying that to Quinn, thank heavens.

No—Judy had made the conscious decision to not set one single toe down on that path that could have led to losing her daughter all over again, and instead she'd made a promise to herself to support Quinn unconditionally in her pregnancy after failing so spectacularly the first time around.

Still, in the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind, Judy had wondered if she would be able to feel the same way about the baby that Quinn would give birth to as she did about TJ (or even about Beth) when that baby wouldn't truly be Judy's grandchild.

Not by blood.

Right now, gazing down at Calliope Alice Fabray's innocent face framed with tufts of dark hair, Judy can say with absolute certainty that blood doesn't mean a damned thing. Her heart had melted and been reformed with endless caverns of love the very moment her eyes had fallen on her baby girl's baby girl.

"She's absolutely perfect," Judy murmurs in quiet awe, gently rocking her granddaughter in her arms in a soothing rhythm that's recorded deep in the memory of her muscles.

"She really is," Quinn agrees—voice tired and raspy from the hours she'd spent screaming as she'd struggled to bring this perfect little life into the world.

Judy manages to tear her eyes away from the baby to glance at her daughter, who's resting half propped up against Rachel in her hospital bed, exhausted but elated as she watches her own daughter with eyes so full of love. Rachel, looking almost as exhausted with her dark hair scraped into a messy ponytail, is perched gingerly on the mattress next to Quinn, gripping her hand tightly with a dazed smile and stunned expression that hasn't quite begun to fade yet.

It's been an incredibly long day for all of them, and the never-ending parade of family and close friends popping in to catch their first glimpse of baby Calliope has only recently ended for the night, finally allowing Judy the chance to have her new grandbaby (almost) all to herself.

"I'm just so happy she got your nose," Rachel murmurs with a distracted kind of relief.

Quinn chuckles at that, shaking her head. "You know she didn't."

The amused reprimand seems to shake Rachel out of her awe because she's instantly frowning down at Quinn. "I know no such thing," she insists haughtily before turning her determined gaze to Judy. "Judy, don't you think she has Quinn's nose?" There's only the briefest of pauses—not nearly long enough for Judy to form a reply—before Rachel's lips quirk into a teasing grin. "The original one anyway."

An indignant huff slips from Quinn's mouth as she reaches over to lightly pinch Rachel's arm in reprimand. Judy can't help but smile indulgently as she gazes back down at her granddaughter, drinking in her delicate features. "Mm. I do," she agrees after a moment. She knows—of course, she knows—that little Calliope's button nose can be credited to the donor they'd chosen, but they'd chosen so perfectly that Judy can easily allow herself to believe that she's seeing pieces of Quinn in her granddaughter's features, and she's more than happy to play along. "Her chin, too," she decides with a tender smile, gently tracing the tiny cleft that she finds there with the pad of her thumb.

"See. Your mother agrees with me," Rachel boasts triumphantly. "She would know. You obviously managed to pass some of your traits along to our daughter in utero."

"You're ridiculous," Quinn laughingly accuses, but Judy doesn't think she's imagining her daughter's pleasure at the thought.

"Don't laugh. You have a very forceful nature, Quinn Fabray."

"Rachel does have a point there, dear," Judy interjects, feeling a swell of pride in her daughter's indomitable spirit—one she takes no credit for. "In any case, she's beautiful."

Quinn sighs happily, cuddling more deeply into Rachel's side. "I think we can all agree on that."

Rachel nods silently before pressing a kiss to the crown of Quinn's head. Judy only half sees it from the corner of her eye—her immediate attention held captive by the baby in her arms. "You are going to have so much love in your life, my sweet angel. Yes, you are," she coos softly. "You have two strong, accomplished mommies who will do anything for you. And two overprotective grandpas who are going to spoil you rotten," she muses, smiling as she thinks of Hiram and Leroy Berry with all of their fussing and fostering. She tries to ignore the ache in her heart at Russell's woeful inability to offer even a fraction of the same. "I might do a little spoiling too," she whispers conspiratorially, determined to make up for all Russell's failings and give the Berrys (and Shelby Corcoran) a run for their money in the favorite grandparent competition. "Or a lot."

She hears Quinn mutter, "Lord help us," to Rachel, but Judy won't be deterred.

"It's your grandma's right to spoil you, my darling," she informs Calliope quite seriously, ignoring her daughter's chuckle. "Even if it's just with kisses." And because she simply can't resist the lure of soft baby skin, she dips down closer to press a loving kiss to Calliope's forehead. She's rewarded with a soft baby gurgle, and she grins in pleasure.

No. Blood and biology certainly don't matter in the least. This is her grandbaby—now and forever.

"There will never be a day when you don't know what a blessing you are to all of us. I promise you that."

"That's…a really good promise," Quinn says tearfully.

Lifting her head to look at Quinn, Judy can see the trembling smile and warm gaze aimed at her—the hope for a future that's so much happier than their often troubled past. "It's one I intend to keep this time, Lucy Quinn," she vows. Judy might have let Quinn down in the past—Frannie too—but she refuses to squander the second chance she's been given with both of them and their beautiful children. "You've made such a wonderful family," she observes with a proud smile as her eyes move from her emotional daughter to an equally emotional Rachel. "Both of you," she amends kindly, fully accepting that Quinn really couldn't have chosen a better partner in life than Rachel Berry. "I'm so grateful to be part of it."

"You're a really important part, Mom," Quinn promises, pressing an open palm over her heart as she smiles tearfully at Judy, and Judy finds her own eyes are tellingly moist.

Clearing her throat, she glances at Rachel, seeing the woman wiping at her own stray tears with her free hand. "Rachel, dear, would you mind holding your beautiful daughter for a moment so I can hold mine?"

She would hold both of them if she could, but she simply doesn't have enough arms to make that happen safely.

Rachel startles for a moment at the request before nodding jerkily. "Oh…yes. Of course I can do that," she responds, careful to make sure that Quinn is comfortably propped up against her pillow before she slips off the edge of the bed. Judy stands from her chair, carefully walking over to transfer the precious little person in her arms into her mother's care.

"Here let me…um…" Rachel holds her arms out rather awkwardly at first, not quite sure where to put her hands, and Judy chuckles lightly at the display of new parent nerves. She remembers them all too well. Shifting her hold on the baby, she eases Calliope into Rachel's arms until she feels the treasured weight lift away from her and Rachel is left cradling her daughter—though perhaps just a little bit stiffly.

Smiling, Judy pauses to adjust the placement of Rachel's hand under Calliope's head. "Don't worry dear," she offers, laying a reassuring hand on Rachel's shoulder. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough."

A breathless laugh slips past her lips. "Yeah," she agrees with a nod before falling into her daughter's orbit completely.

Quinn is watching them with such undisguised adoration that Judy is almost reluctant to intrude on the moment, but then her glistening eyes move to Judy with a different kind of affection—though no less intense—and Judy understands that her presence isn't an intrusion at all. She cautiously sinks onto the mattress next to her daughter, slipping an arm around Quinn's shoulders and feeling her heart soar even higher when her baby girl snuggles into her side with a quiet, "I love you, Mom."

And oh, those tears are slipping down over Judy's cheeks now too. "I love you too, sweetheart," she murmurs, bringing her other arm around Quinn as best she can with their awkward position and Quinn's undoubted tenderness. She places a soft kiss to Quinn's temple, much as she had with Calliope. "I'm so very proud of you and everything that you've accomplished."

Quinn's arm tightens around Judy's waist. "You're gonna make me cry again," she warns with a wet chuckle while the soft grunts of a fussing baby begin to float through the room.

"There's nothing wrong with happy tears," Judy insists, not attempting to hide her own. Her once broken family is flourishing, and she feels lighter than she has in years.

"I am happy," Quinn tells her. "Now more than ever."

A few steps away, Calliope begins to fuss a little more in Rachel's arms—her grunts escalating to squeals and quickly heading (Judy knows) in the direction of outright wails. "Oh, no," Rachel breathes, attempting to sooth her daughter with bouncing arms and faint hushes. "It's okay, little star. I've got you. Don't cry." One particularly ear-splitting shriek echoes through the room, causing Rachel's eyes to widen in alarm. "Oh, you're crying more," she frets, turning her uncertain gaze to Quinn. "Um…Quinn…baby," she pleads, appearing as though she wants nothing more than to pass the baby to Quinn to fix whatever is wrong.

Judy can sense the subtle tension in Quinn that had grown with her daughter's increasing cries—the innate reaction of a mother sensing her child in distress and feeling every instinct cry out to comfort. She can see the same tension in Rachel coupled with the helplessness of not knowing what her child needs from her right now. Judy stifles her smile, because she remembers feeling the same panic she sees in Rachel's eyes right now every time Frannie had cried in those first few weeks—until she'd learned that it was usually either a demand for food, for a dry diaper, or for attention.

Calliope had had her fill at Quinn's breast less than an hour ago, and her diaper is freshly changed, so Judy can only assume that it's attention she's after—or perhaps just a bit of restlessness in her mother's tentative embrace.

"We're going to have some work to do with her, aren't we?" she muses, tipping her chin towards Rachel as she gives Quinnie a reassuring squeeze. A tiny bit of the tension seems to ease out of Quinn at her mother's light tone—as if Judy's utter lack of panic over the baby's cries somehow reassures her that there's nothing seriously wrong.

Judy is more certain than ever that her decision to stay with them for a week or two is the right one. As ready as they think they are for all the ways their lives have just been forever changed, Judy suspects that they're in for a true revelation once they take Calliope home. Having a few extra hands (and more than a few extra years of experience) can only help them settle into their new reality that much faster.

"She's a pretty quick study though," Quinn comments with a small grin.

Judy laughs lightly, having no doubt of that.

"Oh, you're both hilarious," Rachel mutters with a frown before looking back down to her crying daughter. She awkwardly adjusts her arms around the baby, lifting the tiny body a little more securely against her chest and taking extra care to support Calliope's head. "Shh…Mama's here, pretty girl," she murmurs in a sweet voice as she shifts her weight back and forth beside the bed in a gentle, rocking motion. "Mama's right here," she pledges before beginning to hum a melody that sounds vaguely familiar to Judy, though she can't fully place it.

It only takes a few moments before Calliope's cries begin to quiet again, and Quinn sags against Judy in silent relief. "See…told you she's a quick study," she murmurs proudly as she lovingly watches her wife comfort their daughter.

"Mmm. You did," Judy concedes while observing her daughter-in-law successfully navigate through her first moments of motherhood and assured once again that her Quinnie had chosen the right partner.

Her daughter's little family is going to be just fine, and Judy is thankful to be a part of it.


	37. I Just Heard the News Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Moving a Judy mini-ficlet from my tumblr. Set after the ficlet span style _Watch Them Grow_ and before the ficlet _Sometimes I'm Easily Fooled_.
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.

_Well I just heard the news today_  
_It seems my life is going to change._  
_~Arms Wide Open, Creed_

* * *

Quinnie tells her ten o'clock, so Judy sits down at her computer at ten minutes to the hour and boots it up before fussing with the video chat program. She still hasn't quite gotten the hang of using the one on her phone.

She hasn't been to visit her youngest daughter since last summer. It's the first week of March now, and Judy is hoping to be able to make it out to visit Quinn once the weather breaks for good. She'd wanted to travel to New York for Thanksgiving, but—well, Frannie was having a rough time and poor TJ had been so lost and confused. Judy had felt that she was needed more here with her oldest daughter and grandson as they'd navigated the first major holidays since Frannie and Timothy's marriage had come to an end, and Quinn had seemed to understand.

In any case, they've spoken regularly on the phone and had a number of these video chats in the last eight months, including a nice long one on Christmas Day in which Quinn had seemed particularly merry. Judy is happy that at least one of her daughters is so content.

Judy smiles when she sees Quinn's pixilated image fill the computer screen. "Quinnie," she murmurs happily.

"Hi, Mom," Quinn responds, reaching out to shift the computer, causing the screen to jump before it settles to reveal Rachel sitting next to Quinn. "Can you see us?"

"Yes. Hello, Rachel, dear," Judy responds politely, a little surprised to see them both. Quinn is usually the only one present for these calls.

"Hi, Judy," Rachel greets with a little wave.

Decades of good manners prompt Judy to ask, "How have you been? How is your show going?"

"Oh, it's going wonderfully," Rachel answers with a grin. "They're mentioning the tee word a lot around the theatre."

Judy's brows furrow slightly. "The tee word?"

Even through the digital connection, Judy can see her daughter's eyes roll. "Tony," she explains with a shake of her head, though Judy can tell that she's proud of her wife.

"Oh, of course. Well, you certainly deserve a nomination," she tells Rachel, and it's true. Judy had seen the show in Chicago last summer, and it was quite enjoyable. Rachel, of course, was outstanding. There's never been any question about her daughter-in-law's talent.

"Of course I do," Rachel responds without shame. Judy catches the slight movement of Quinn's shoulder before Rachel's eyes dart to Quinn, and she hastily adds, "As does everyone else involved with the show, of course."

"How are things in Chicago?" Quinn asks her, changing the subject.

"Cold," Judy quips with a little grimace. "TJ has been enjoying the snow well enough, but I can't wait until spring."

"He's doing okay though?" Quinn asks with a concerned frown. "With…the divorce and everything?"

Judy smiles sadly. "He's doing…better." Having his father move out has been hard on him, of course, but he's proving to be a resilient child. At least he no longer has to bear witness to his parents fighting all the time. "So is Frannie," she adds.

Quinn nods. "That's good. She's better off without him." It's no secret that Quinn had never liked Timothy. She'd always thought he was too much like Russell. Judy is sorry to say that Quinn was right.

"You could call her, Quinnie," Judy urges. Her daughters are still both incredibly stubborn—content to find out little tidbits of each other's lives through their conversations with Judy instead of swallowing their pride and trying to mend their relationship without Judy's mediation. "I think she'd like to hear from you."

Quinn huffs out a long-suffering sigh. "Mother…"

"I know you still have some issues," Judy interrupts, "but she _is_ your sister."

Rachel offers Quinn a supportive smile, and Quinn rolls her eyes again. "I know," she concedes reluctantly. "But we didn't call to talk to you about Frannie." She glances over at Rachel again, biting her lip nervously before looking back at the webcam. "Rachel and I…we have some news."

There's something in Quinn's expression—in the tone of her voice—that makes Judy's stomach tighten in anticipation. "What kind of news?" she asks carefully. Really, it could be anything—good or bad. It could be something about Beth, or one of Rachel's fathers, or Rachel herself, or—

"We're having a baby," Quinn announces with a tremulous smile. "I'm pregnant, Mom."

"Pregnant?" Judy echoes breathlessly. Her stomach flips, and her mind races backwards in time to the first time she'd discovered that Quinn was pregnant and how terrible it had been—how Quinnie had looked so lost and broken and afraid. But this time—this time her baby girl is looking at her with such hope in her eyes. "Oh…Quinnie," she whispers, pressing her fingers to her lips.

Quinn sucks in a quick, little breath before she begins to talk again. "I'm due August 29th. I know we probably should have told you sooner, but we wanted to wait until the second trimester just to be safe. And…everything is perfect," she promises, unable to suppress the wide, joyful smile that lights up her face at the revelation, "and…we're really so happy, Mom."

Rachel moves closer to Quinn then, visibly wrapping an arm around her. "We are," she confirms into the camera. Judy would swear that she can almost see a mild warning in her eyes— _don't do anything to diminish Quinn's happiness_.

As if Judy could.

"Of course. Of course you are," she acknowledges, her own lips curving into an irrepressible smile. Her baby girl is having a baby—starting a family of her own with the person she's chosen to love—and Judy is going to be a grandmother again. She feels her own happiness begin to bubble to the surface, chased by a wonderful sense of hopefulness about the future. "Oh, Quinnie. I…you're going to be such a wonderful mother," she realizes with tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, I wish I was there so I could hug you." Her arms nearly ache with the desire to be wrapped around her daughter and—and her new grandbaby-to-be!

Quinn laughs then, eyes shining with happiness. "You can hug me when you come visit us next."

"I'm sorry we couldn't tell you in person, Judy," Rachel offers with a smile of her own.

"Well, I suppose that's to be expected when I live in Chicago," Judy dismisses, brushing away a few stray tears. "I promise you'll be seeing a lot more of me in the future. In fact, I think I need to call the airline and arrange a flight," she decides right then and there. She'd been a failure of an expectant grandmother with Quinn the first time around. She intends to make up for that now. "If you wouldn't mind an impromptu visit this weekend?"

Rachel and Quinn share a look between them, and Rachel nods, smiling back at the camera. "We would love a visit, Judy."

"You know you're always welcome here, Mom," Quinn adds, looking absolutely radiant as she beams into the camera.

Oh, yes. Judy will be taking advantage of that open invitation in the coming months. She's not going to miss out on the chance to watch Quinnie become a mother this time.

"I'm so very happy for you, Lucy Quinn. I love you."

Judy won't ever let her daughter doubt that again.


	38. Something In Your Eyes Is Makin' Such A Fool of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet set a few years after _This Lovely Easter Morning._

_Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me_  
_When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't see._  
_~Borderline, Madonna_

* * *

Rachel is in an extremely good mood as she strolls along the sidewalk toward her apartment on West End Avenue, humming the melody to her very favorite song off her newest, soon to be released album. Well— _all_ of her songs are favorites in one way or another, but she's exceptionally attached to this one because she'd written it about her beautiful little girl. It's a promise to always _be there_ for her, and God-willing, she'll be able to keep that promise so much better this year than she had in the last.

Rachel loves her life. She adores her family. And she's thrilled with the sudden explosion of her career on every front that's been happening in the last two years, but she's the first to admit that she'd overextended herself more than a little in the past eighteen months or so.

That first year after Calliope had been born, Rachel made it a point to be home with her wife and daughter more often than not, passing the time by working on her first album with Atlantic Records—a moderate success that had earned her a Grammy for Record of the Year, thanks to one particularly catchy (and, in Rachel's humble opinion, masterfully recorded) song that had broken out and been all over the radio right before the nominations.

But when Callie was fast approaching her second birthday, Rachel decided to sign on for a television pilot that had been filming right here in New York, and to her surprise and delight, it was picked up by the network.

That had been the beginning of Rachel's newly crazy schedule, even though her role on the show, _Union City Blues_ , is technically a supporting one. (One that won her a frickin' Emmy last September, thank you very much!)

Hard on the heels of her television success had been the offer to reprise her role of Iris in the big screen adaptation of _Confessions,_ and there was no way that Rachel was going to pass up _that_ opportunity, so she'd burned through her summer hiatus from _Union City_ with an insanely exhausting film schedule before going right back to work on the second season of the show.

And in the middle of that, the record company had pushed her to start recording the second album of her two album deal, and—

Needless to say, she _hates_ how little quality time she's actually been able to spend with Quinn and Callie recently. Quinn has been so wonderfully understanding about all of it—supporting Rachel and encouraging her to take these opportunities—but Rachel can feel the strain it's been putting on their family, especially with Quinn's time more in demand thanks to the success of her books and the resulting movies.

So now, _finally_ , Rachel is looking at a blessedly light schedule for the rest of the year. Her album is coming out this summer (so she'd just been at the record company this morning to listen through the tracks again and offer some final input on the cover design) and the _Confessions_ premiere is set for the end of August (appropriately in time for Callie's fourth birthday), and the fate of poor Abby (her character on _Union City_ ) is about to be tossed into cliffhanger-y suspense just in time for May sweeps, so Rachel already knows that she won't be required on set quite as often when they start filming season three.

(And maybe— _just maybe_ —watching Santana and Teresa decide to take on motherhood for themselves had given Rachel a touch of baby-fever and caused her to mention to her producers that she and Quinn might be thinking about trying for a second baby in the near future and ask if the show would be able to work around a possible pregnancy. Nothing like that is happening just yet but it maybe could be in the next year or so.)

With a bounce in her step, Rachel turns into her building, waving at Stanley, the part-time doorman, on her way to the elevator. She _loves_ that they have a doorman here. The apartment had been on the very upper limit of their budget when they'd signed the lease four years ago, but with the recent successes that they've both been enjoying in their careers, it's more than comfortable now—comfortable financially anyway. Space, on the other hand, might be becoming an issue with an energetic three-going-on-four–year-old who bounces around from room to room like a bunny on speed. (An adorable, cuddly bunny that Rachel loves with all of her heart and soul.) It might just be time for Rachel and Quinn to discuss upgrading to an actual house with a yard for Callie to enjoy somewhere outside of Manhattan, especially if they decide to go ahead with the potential expansion of their family.

When the elevator comes to a stop on her floor, Rachel practically skips out of it, eager to spend the rest of the afternoon with her girls. It's such a lovely day—in the mid-seventies and sunny with a nice breeze—and she's thinking that maybe they can all go play in the park. She's still humming when she slides her key into the lock and opens the door, stepping into their bright apartment with a cheerful, "I'm home."

She frowns a little when she isn't immediately greeted by her wife's voice or her daughter attempting to tackle her around her knees. "Quinn, baby? Calliope?" she calls out on her way through the foyer.

"We're in the living room," Quinn finally answers, voice sounding a little odd.

Rachel heads directly for the living room to discover Callie curled into Quinn's side on the sofa with wide, wet eyes while Quinn looks up at Rachel regretfully, one arm curled securely around their daughter.

Rachel's heart practically stops beating before jumping into her throat. "Oh, God. What happened? What's wrong?" she asks in a panic, rushing over and sinking onto the coffee table across from them, immediately reaching out to gently cup her daughter's wet face, but Callie only turns her head into Quinn's breast to hide from her.

Rachel sucks in a harsh breath at the rejection and jerks her hand away, her heart breaking as she turns to Quinn in hurt confusion.

Quinn reaches out a hand—the one that isn't currently holding their sniffling daughter—to take Rachel's limp one as she offers a reassuring smile. "Don't panic, sweetie," she instructs in a calm, even tone. "We're both fine. No one is hurt." Then she cringes mildly, glancing down at Callie. "Well…no one except Emmy."

Rachel's brows furrow even more as she glances between the two most important people in her life before her worried eyes settle on Callie, who's peeking around Quinn's damp shirt with doleful eyes.

"Who's Emmy?" Rachel asks in bewilderment, wracking her brain to remember if Callie has any little friends in her preschool class named Emmy.

Quinn sighs, shaking her head as she lets go of Rachel's hand and reaches down to pick up something from the sofa beside her. Rachel's eyes follow the motion, registering the flash of gold and—

Rachel's hand flies to her mouth to suppress a squeaking gasp of horror, and her eyes go wide as they take in her once beautiful statuette—now broken off its black base with a missing globe and bent wings.

"She took a little spill this morning," Quinn explains apologetically. "I'm afraid her condition is critical."

Rachel's attempt to respond to her wife's inappropriate humor is barely more than a pained grunt.

"I'm sorry Mama," Callie mumbles tearfully—though it comes out sounding more like _Mm thawee Mmm_ since her face is still mostly buried in Quinn _._

Rachel pries her hand from her mouth and forces a deep breath into her lungs, tearing her eyes away from her poor, mutilated Emmy Award to study her daughter's guilty posture. It finally registers that her precious baby girl is Emmy's assailant.

"H-how did it happen?" she finally manages to ask, glancing back to Quinn with a forced calm.

 _It's just a statue. An inanimate thing,_ she silently reminds herself.

_The third piece to completing my coveted EGOT that is now in pieces!_

Quinn sighs, rubbing a comforting circle over Callie's small, quivering shoulder. "Someone got a little too rambunctious during her reenactment of Merida's daring rescue of her mother and ended up tackling your award case."

Rachel's frown deepens, and she reaches up to rub two fingers over the bridge of her nose. "I knew we should have gone with the wall mounted one," she grumbles—but _no_ , Quinn had thought _that one_ would be too dangerous with both Oliver and Callie running around, so they'd gone with the floor cabinet instead, and—

"Oh, my God," she gasps in realization, immediately sliding off the edge of the table to kneel awkwardly on the floor in front of Callie, her decimated award all but forgotten. "Callie, baby, are you okay?" she rushes out, gently running her hands over her daughter's tiny form. That case is heavy oak with a thick, glass door. Callie could have been seriously injured. "Did you get hurt?" she asks fearfully, stroking Callie's dark hair as she tries to urge her daughter's face away from its hiding place so she can thoroughly inspect her for injuries.

Callie's little head shakes furiously against Quinn, but she still won't look at Rachel, and she's beginning to fidget noticeably even as she stays burrowed into Quinn's side.

Quinn bites into her lip, suppressing a smile. "She's perfect, Rach. No injuries whatsoever. I promise."

Callie makes a noise then that doesn't sound much like a sob at all. In fact, it sounds more like a muffled giggle, and Rachel frowns in apprehension as her gaze flies back to Quinn, whose eyes are alight with a suspicious twinkle.

"I don't see what you could possibly find funny about any of this," Rachel accuses, and her daughter—her sweet, _guilt-ridden_ daughter—collapses into giggles.

Rachel's eyes narrow. "Quinn?"

Her wife ducks her head close to their daughter's hair with a mischievous smirk. "Callie, hon, what do you have to say to Mama?"

Callie pokes her head up then, all her tears dry as she grins toothily at Rachel. "April Fool!" she squeals before enthusiastically flinging herself at Rachel, tiny arms looping around Rachel's neck and tugging her forward.

Rachel teeters off balance from her daughter's unexpected weight, and she has to catch herself against the edge of the sofa to keep from toppling forward. Next to them, Quinn is laughing her ass off.

"This…this was a _prank_?" Rachel realizes incredulously, even as she instinctively wraps Callie in her arms. Belatedly, she remembers that today is, in fact, the first day of April. God damn it!

"We got you good, Mama," Callie boasts, obviously tickled pink at her part in this subterfuge.

"You certainly did," Rachel admits with a faint smile, unable to resist her daughter's infectious exuberance. She'd really believed—wait! Her eyes suddenly fly back to the mangled award still in Quinn's hand. "But…but my Emmy?"

"Safe in the closet," Quinn assures her. "This one is plastic," she supplies, holding it out to Rachel for closer inspection. "I have to say, those prop guys on your show do some high quality work."

Rachel's eyes widen in disbelief. "Quinn! You turned my own crew against me?"

Than damnable eyebrow inches up smugly—because _yes_ , Quinn's eyebrow absolutely _is_ capable of being a smug, little bitch all on its own. "What can I say? Tommy likes me."

Rachel scowls at her. "A little too much, if you ask me," she mutters, making a mental note to have a few words with the cocky, young prop master when next she sees him. His crush on her wife has just crossed the line from cute to bothersome.

"Your face was so funny," Callie tells her, still grinning irrepressibly.

"Oh, it was, was it?" Rachel challenges, feeling her lips twitch at her daughter's giggly nod. "And did Mommy tell you exactly what to do to get me to make that face?"

"Uh huh," Callie confirms happily.

Rachel darts her reproachful gaze back to Quinn. "I can't believe you dragged our innocent daughter into your wicked plot to dupe me again," she huffs, heaving herself off the floor with Callie still in her arms—it's not nearly as easy as it used to be when she was smaller—and settling them both onto the sofa next to Quinn with Callie snugly between them.

Laughing again, Quinn shakes her head. "You should be proud of how well she takes direction. She's a natural," she compliments with a proud smile, tapping their daughter's nose and receiving another delighted giggle before bowing her head to press a kiss to Callie's messy curls. "You're as good an actress as Mama."

"I know," Callie agrees, beaming up at them both and making Quinn laugh in delight.

Rachel presses a hand over her heart, realizing that Quinn is absolutely right. Callie had her convinced that she was distraught—tears and all—right to the moment she broke down laughing. Her daughter has _talent_.

She's so incredibly proud.

Except—

"You were very convincing, little star," Rachel promises her daughter, wrapping an arm around her, "but we really have to work on the roles you agree to take. Being Mommy's evil minion," and she side-eyes Quinn, "is a waste of your immense talent."

Callie giggles again, and Quinn rolls her eyes, reaching out to gently comb her fingers through Callie's hair and fuss with that one stubborn curl that always curls in the opposite direction. "But we had fun, didn't we, Sunshine? Mama's such an easy mark."

"It was fun," Callie agrees with a nod, kicking her little legs against the cushion. "I wanna do it again."

Quinn laughs in delight, and Rachel sighs in resignation at her daughter's easy betrayal. "I can't believe I have two of you now," she complains affably.

"You _love_ that you have two of us," Quinn counters knowingly.

Rachel feels her mouth curve into a content smile as she gazes lovingly at her two pranksters. "I do," she agrees, cuddling Callie closer as she leans into Quinn and brushes a brief kiss across her smirking lips. She'll happily play the fool for them every single time.


	39. You Know I Want Your Love (In Love With the Shape of You Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Occurs shortly after _In Love With the Shape of You_. I had originally started to write that fic in Quinn's point of view before changing my mind and switching to Rachel. This is the 'deleted scene' reworked into a short ficlet.

 

_Girl, you know I want your love_  
_Your love was handmade for somebody like me_  
_Come on now, follow my lead_  
_I may be crazy, don't mind me_  
_~Shape of You, Ed Sheeran_

* * *

Her first pregnancy hadn't been like this.

Oh, there are things that are the same—things that Quinn recognizes with a sense of bittersweet wistfulness—but there have also been a handful of little surprises that hadn't been present (or that _she_ just hadn't really been present enough to notice) when she'd been pregnant with Beth.

Quinn had never marked those weeks with any joy or anticipation, and she certainly hadn't gone looking for information on her baby's development at each passing milestone the way she and Rachel are so joyfully doing with this baby. No, those weeks had mostly dragged along in hazy, slow motion as her body had changed and rebelled against her, evicting her meager meals for months and riling up her hormones in the most destructive ways before squeezing her out of her clothes more and more as her belly had grown. At the same time, the weeks had somehow flown by far too quickly for her to be at all prepared for the pain and heartache that awaited her at the end of week number forty. Well—Quinn hadn't actually quite made it to week number forty the first time around, but it wouldn't have changed anything even if she had.

Things are very different this time.

Quinn's copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ is well-read and dog-eared. It's only slightly less dog-eared than Rachel's copy and lacking the dozens of post-it page markers, neon yellow highlights, and handwritten notes in the margins. There are already onesies, baby blankets, and reusable diapers (that Quinn isn't one hundred percent sold on) tucked away in the closet, ready for their little girl's arrival in the world. They're even making plans to view a few of the more affordable apartments currently on the market in the Upper West Side. Moving will be hell whether they do it before or after the baby is born, but it will need to happen soon either way. Their family is growing—and so is Quinn.

She'd hated this part when she was sixteen—helpless to stop her stomach from ballooning up for all the world to see—and while it still bothers her to lose her waistline and kiss her favorite clothes (and shoes, damn it!) goodbye, she's mostly made her peace with her changing body by focusing on the end result. That's something she hadn't been able to do the first time around.

She also hadn't had Rachel the first time. It makes a world of difference to have someone to hold her when she's feeling fat and remind her how beautiful and sexy she is. Quinn can't say that she _always_ feels beautiful or sexy, but her relationship with her own body is much more positive with this pregnancy. Maybe it's because she's actually _happy_ this time. Or maybe it's because her partner actually loves and supports her. Or maybe she's just finally grown up and grown into her own sensuality.

And _oh_ —the _sensuality_.

Quinn absolutely does _not_ remember being this persistently _horny_ during her first pregnancy. Oh, she remembers having a few urges, of course, and a fleeting sex dream or two, but since those had been all twisted up with her repressed sexuality and her unrelenting depression, it had been pretty easy to ignore the whispers of her long-suppressed libido. Besides, her only viable options at the time had been Finn or _Puck_ , and the idea of having sex with either one of them (sober) had been enough to cure whatever little itch she'd felt.

That's _so_ not the case now.

The itch has been a near constant companion ever since Quinn had hit the fifteen week mark and the nausea had finally subsided, especially when she has a gorgeous, sexy wife who's oh-so-willing to help Quinn scratch those itches.

Well— _mostly_ willing. Rachel does need to get enough rest to keep up with her show schedule, so she can't be at Quinn's constant beck and call. And Quinn doesn't want to be constantly dragging her wife to bed (or the sofa or the shower or the kitchen table—though that one's gotten a little too uncomfortable now with her ever-expanding belly) when they both have more to do with their time than each other, but some days she just can't seem to help herself. It's a little embarrassing, actually.

She knows it's perfectly normal for her sex drive to be increased now that her energy level is back up to speed and the extra blood is flowing to the most sensitive parts of her body—all the pregnancy books say so—but she still feels like a wanton sex fiend when she's sitting across from her wife at their favorite corner diner on a Monday morning and all she can think about it stripping Rachel naked and having _her_ for breakfast instead of the strawberry and banana covered waffle on her plate.

"This one is only three blocks from Santana," Rachel murmurs, staring intently at the phone she's holding in her left hand while the other juggles her fork. "I'm not sure if that should be considered a pro or a con," she jokes, glancing up at Quinn.

"Mmhmm."

Rachel's brows furrow slightly as she studies her wife with a mildly disappointed expression. "Quinn? Have you been paying attention at all?"

"Huh? Yeah. Three blocks from Santana," Quinn echoes, forcing her attention back to Rachel's words and not Rachel's delectably tempting non-wordy assets. She shifts restlessly in her seat, diligently attempting to ignore the very inappropriate tingles skittering through her lower body and the fact that it's been approximately twenty-three hours since Rachel last touched her there.

She really thought she'd be okay this morning, damn it!

Rachel's slowly lowers the phone in her hand down to the table as her expression turns knowing. "Quinn, baby. We really should take a look at some of these apartments today," she points out gently.

Quinn purses her lips, dropping her eyes back down to her plate. "I know," she confirms with a short nod. They really do need to find a three bedroom that they both like before Quinn gets so big that Rachel will need a forklift to move her along with the all of their belongings.

She hears a sigh from the other side of the table. "We're getting the check and going home, aren't we?" Rachel speculates in mild amusement.

Quinn scrapes her teeth over her lip as she lifts her gaze. "Can we?" she asks hopefully.

Rachel grins. "I suppose I can make the sacrifice."

Those tingles catch fire and race through Quinn's body until she's squirming in her seat. She leans across the table—as far as her belly will allow—and lowers her voice. "You can wear the strap-on."

Rachel's breath hitches and she drops the fork to her plate with a clatter. "Check, please," she shouts, lifting her hand into the air with an impatient wave to their waitress.

Quinn presses her thighs together in anticipation as she gazes hungrily at her wife, already planning to leave their waitress a really nice tip so she can hurry home to enjoy Rachel's much sexier service.


	40. Kissed By the Sun Each Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Mother's Day ficlet set about a year after _Something In Your Eyes Is Makin' Such A Fool of Me._

_I get kissed by the sun each morning_  
_Put my feet on a hardwood floor_  
_I get to hear my children laughing_  
_Down the hall through the bedroom door_  
_~Blessed, Martina McBride_

* * *

Consciousness creeps into her dreams with a hazy sort of urgency, poking at her brain like a forgotten chore. The first thing that registers is the warm body of her wife curled into her and the faint scent of citrus clinging to dark hair as it tickles her nose. The second thing that registers is the awareness that it's Sunday. Quinn sighs in happiness, snuggling closer to Rachel with the intention of allowing her body to drift back to sleep for another hour or two—at least until the unmistakable sound of a door closing interrupts her lazy semi-slumber.

Her eyes instantly pop open as awareness races through her blood, waking her fully. The sun is just barely peeking through the closed blinds, but there is unmistakably someone (much bigger than Oliver) up and moving around the apartment, so she reluctantly turns her head away from its comfortable position on the pillow to blurrily stare at the clock.

7:13.

"Seriously?" she whispers, barely stifling her groan.

Callie really needs to lose this early-rising habit she's gotten into on the weekends. She's almost as bad as Rachel used to be. Quinn's sigh this time is one of resignation as she attempts to extricate herself from Rachel as carefully and quietly as possible so she can go check on their daughter. She's actually surprised Callie hasn't already come barging in here to bounce on the bed and wake them up the way she has so many times, but she's certainly grateful for the reprieve. Rachel really needs the extra sleep.

An irrepressible grin blooms on Quinn's lips when she thinks about why, and she has to resist the urge to curl back into Rachel, slip a hand beneath her t-shirt, and just lie here and hold her all day because she knows their daughter isn't about to let that happen. The audible scraping of furniture across their hardwood floors is proof of that, and Quinn's smile fades as the question of what Callie is up to takes precedence in her mind. She drags her still-sleepy ass out of bed, grabs her glasses, and spares one fond glance at her softly snoring wife before she pads out of the bedroom on the way to check on Callie.

The second she steps into the hallway, she can hear Ollie mewling his demands to be fed, and Quinn hurries her pace in the hope of preventing Callie from dumping the whole container of cat food into his bowl (and all over the kitchen floor) like she tends to do.

When she's in view of the kitchen, she freezes for moment, feeling her heart lurch in fear when she spots her four year-old daughter standing precariously on a chair as she opens the overhead cabinet. She's just about to race the rest of the way over and find out what Callie thinks she's doing when her daughter's soft words to Oliver begin to register.

"You have to be quiet, Ollie. Mama and Mommy are sleeping and I wanna surprise them with breakfast. It's Mommies Day today. I'll feed you after."

Quinn presses a hand to her smiling lips, suddenly torn between the need to stand watch over Callie and the desire to tip-toe back into the bedroom and let their daughter surprise them for Mother's Day. So she stays where she is, stepping back just enough to stay mostly hidden around the corner while she peeks out to watch Callie successfully (though a bit loudly) maneuver two bowls down from the cabinet. Callie carefully climbs down from the chair, noisily pushing it across the floor a little until it's under the cabinet with the cereal, and Quinn cringes at the thought of the possible scratches to her flooring, but she decides to worry about that later.

She's still watching over Callie, grinning at the little pink tongue poking out from between her lips in concentration while she kneels on the chair and pours the cereal—thank God she'd picked the corn flakes over her Lucky Charms—when Quinn hears the bedroom door open again, and she quickly whips around and races back down the hall in time to catch Rachel shuffling out of the room.

Rachel's eyes widen when she sees Quinn jogging towards her, and her mouth opens to speak, but Quinn slides to a stop in front of her and presses a hand to her lips with an urgent, "Shhh."

Rachel's eyebrows furrow as her eyes narrow. "Winn," she mumbles from beneath Quinn's fingertips.

"Callie is trying to surprise us with breakfast," Quinn whispers, dropping her hand. "It's the cutest thing."

Rachel's eyes widen under arched eyebrows. "Is that what all the noise is?" she whispers back.

Quinn nods. "Sorry," she practically mouths.

Rachel grins, shrugging. She silently points down the hall, indicating that she wants to see, and Quinn nods, smiling back. But before Rachel even takes a step, Quinn stops her with a hand on her arm, pointing down to her midsection with a questioning look.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "We're fine," she promises quietly, reaching up to stroke Quinn's cheek tenderly. "Just a little queasy."

"Lucky," Quinn murmurs, a little jealous that Rachel seems to be dodging the persistent morning sickness that Quinn had experienced with her pregnancies. She'd been racing for the bathroom to puke her guts out by this time with both Callie and Beth, but at nine weeks, Rachel has only actually thrown up once, though she's felt mildly nauseous on and off just about every day. But Quinn supposes she's due for a break since she'd had an even rougher IVF cycle this time than she'd had when they were getting Quinn pregnant with Callie, and then—well, Quinn is just so grateful that things seem to be going really well now and that Rachel is starting to feel more confident about her pregnancy.

"Don't jinx me," Rachel warns lowly, playfully poking Quinn in the side before she steps around her to go see what their firstborn is up to. Quinn follows behind her, hoping that they haven't alerted Callie to their presence just yet.

Rachel comes to a stop in the same spot that Quinn had been standing earlier, poking her head around the corner to spy on their daughter, and Quinn presses into her back, wrapping one arm around Rachel's waist and anchoring the other against the wall as she stretches up onto her toes to peer over the top of Rachel's head.

The milk carton is still sitting out on the counter, and Callie is currently making a mess with the orange juice being messily poured into two glasses, but she's absolutely adorable doing it. Quinn can't even care that she's going to have such a mess to clean up later.

Rachel lifts a hand to her mouth, and Quinn worries for a second that maybe she _is_ going to be sick this morning after all, but then Rachel is turning around with tears glistening in her eyes and a look of absolute adoration on her face, and Quinn understands. That's their kid in there—making them their Mother's Day present with her own two hands. Or trying to anyway.

Quinn is feeling a bit tearful herself as she smiles affectionately at Rachel.

Rachel manages to compose herself, wiping away the moisture beneath her eyes. "We should go back to bed," she whispers, giving Quinn's hip a little pat.

"Go ahead. I'm just gonna," Quinn gestures to the corner, intending to keep watch in case Callie ends up dropping something.

Rachel gives her an exasperated look, shaking her head. "Don't let her see you," she warns lowly.

Quinn arches a brow, a little insulted that Rachel would doubt her stealth. "I've got this," she mouths, winking at her wife before she leans in to brush a soft kiss over her lips.

Once Rachel retreats to their bedroom, Quinn creeps back to the corner and takes note of Callie's progress. Two bowls of cereal, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice (that Quinn knows Rachel probably can't quite stomach just yet), and she apparently found the container of strawberries that Quinn had cut yesterday.

Quinn almost breaks her promise not to let their daughter see her when Callie practically crawls into the cabinet under the sink after finally feeding Ollie because she's coming out with the folding lap tray, and all Quinn can picture is a giant mess of broken bowls and glasses on the floor if Callie actually attempts to serve them breakfast in bed. But she bites into her lip and stubbornly holds her position as she watches Callie set up the tray on the floor before carefully moving both bowls, one at a time, down onto the tray and then placing the glasses and strawberries there too. Then she pulls something else off the counter to place on the tray—Quinn thinks maybe it's a napkin—and Quinn holds her breath as Callie picks up the tray, making sure she has it balanced with a determined expression, before she starts to turn.

And then Quinn is racing down the hallway again, careful to leave the bedroom door ajar just enough for their daughter to be able to push it open, before she practically leaps into bed next to Rachel, throwing her glasses on the nightstand.

"Quinn?"

"Pretend you're sleeping," Quinn hisses out, tugging the sheet up over them.

Rachel giggles a little, and Quinn shushes her again, closing her eyes and willing her body to relax. Thankfully, Rachel proves that she actually deserves every single one of her acting awards by immediately going still and quiet next to her. Quinn's heart continues to race, however, and she half expects to hear a crash before Callie will start sobbing, but to her relief, there's nothing but the sound of shuffling feet and the slight rattling of glassware before Callie is standing next to the mattress.

"Mommy. Mama. I made breakfast," she announces at a volume that she absolutely inherited from Rachel.

Quinn takes a deep breath, making a show of stretching as she opens her eyes and turns her head toward Callie. Rachel shifts on the mattress next to her, pulling off a very convincing (or quite possibly real) yawn. Quinn locks her eyes on her daughter, taking note of the fact that the tray has actually survived the journey relatively unscathed. There are a few drops of milk on it and a tiny puddle of orange juice, but it's otherwise intact. She has to admit—she's pretty impressed.

Quinn pushes herself up on the mattress, eyes wide as she reaches for her glasses. "Oh wow. You made breakfast?" she repeats, acting surprised.

"Uh huh," Callie answers proudly, nodding her head.

"Oh, how sweet," Rachel coos as she sits up next to Quinn, smiling tearfully at their daughter.

"Happy Mommies Day, Mommy. Happy Mommies Day, Mama."

Quinn feels her own eyes grow damp, and there's absolutely no acting involved. "Thank you so much, sunshine. Here," she holds out her hands as she leans toward her daughter. "Let me take that tray." Callie ever-so-carefully lifts it higher and moves it into Quinn's waiting hands with the widest, proudest smile, and Quinn nearly loses her breath at how much she looks like Rachel in that moment. She manages to transfer the tray onto her lap without incident, looking down at the already soggy cereal with a lump in her throat. "This looks so amazing," she gushes with a wide smile.

Next to her, Rachel echoes, "It does," despite the fact that she'd probably much rather have a piece of toast. She holds her own arms open for their daughter. "Get up here so I can hug you, little star," she urges, and Callie doesn't need any further invitation. She skips over to the end of the bed, knowing better than crawl over Quinn with the tray there, and scampers up onto the mattress between her mothers. Rachel instantly pulls Callie into her arms with happy tears streaming down over her cheeks. "I love you so much," she murmurs, kissing the top of Callie's head.

Callie giggles happily. "I love you, Mama," she echoes, giving Rachel a sloppy kiss on her cheek before turning to Quinn. "And I love you, Mommy," she says, squirming away from Rachel to give Quinn a sloppy kiss of her own that makes Quinn's heart soar with joy. "You're the bestest mommies ever," Callie declares, reaching over to pick up the piece of paper that's tucked onto the corner of the tray. "I even made a card that says so," she announces, holding it out for Quinn to take.

"You did?" Quinn asks in delight, taking the homemade card with an elated smile.

"I did," Callie confirms very seriously. "Read it, Mommy."

The card is made out of pink construction paper with a red, bedazzled heart right in the middle and glitter covered letters spelling out Happy Mommies Day, and Quinn chuckles as she holds it up for Rachel to see. Rachel's eyes sparkle with happy tears as she presses her fingers to her grinning lips, looking as tickled by it as Quinn feels. "Happy Mommies Day," Quinn recites, choosing not to mention the misspelling or the missing apostrophe. Even so, she knows Callie had probably needed some help with this and wonders which one of their friends or family members had manned the glue and the glitter.

"Open it," Callie demands, practically bouncing on the mattress between them.

Still smiling, Quinn opens the card obediently, and when her brain registers what she's reading in her daughter's shaky, crayon scripted handwriting, her words come out more than a little choked up. "I am so lucky I get to have two. I love you forever, mommy and mama. Love Callie."

Quinn sniffles, wiping away a stray tear as she hands the card to Rachel to read for herself. "We love you forever, too, honey," she promises, snaking an arm around Callie's shoulders to hug her close and brush a kiss to her sweet cheek—careful not to topple the tray she'd worked so hard to prepare.

Rachel sniffles too. "You're the best daughter in the world," she says through her tears, somehow managing to hug them both even while she reverently holds onto the card.

Quinn feels so incredibly blessed in this moment, wrapped up in the warmth of her family with the certainty that by next year her blessings will have doubled. Between them, Callie giggles happily, and it's best Mother's Day gift of all.


	41. It's A Work of Art When You Shine Like the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A Santaresa installment of the _Don't Blink_ universe set a few weeks after _My Friends They Are So Beautiful_ and featuring cameos by Deveright and Faberry.
> 
> This one is actually betaed by the ever awesome Skywarrior108.
> 
>  **Warning:** Santana pov.

_Come with me and I'll take you away if you'll let me_  
_Stay with me and I'll cover your soul with my body_  
_Give me your heart, and I'll give you my love_  
_It's a work of art, when you shine like the sun_  
_So give your heart to me_  
_~Come With Me, Echosmith_

* * *

Santana Lopez is feeling pretty damn lucky right now. She's got a career that she loves—though there are days when it puts her through the wringer both physically and emotionally—friends who'll be there for her no matter what, and a hot, talented girlfriend that she's falling for more and more every day. And tonight she gets to show off that hot girlfriend to all her friends and colleagues.

"Have I mentioned how incredibly sexy you look tonight?" Santana asks, slipping an arm around Teresa's waist. Her girlfriend sure as hell cleans up nice. The satiny blue dress she's wearing hugs all the right curves, and her short hair is artfully teased into spiky waves that make Santana want to sink her fingers in and tug while Teresa—well, yeah, those thoughts probably aren't suitable for where they are right now. Once they're back at Santana's place, though, she's going to indulge in every single fantasy that Teresa is inspiring in that dress.

"A few times," Teresa drawls with an indulgent roll of her eyes, but then she bites into her glossy lower lip and goes from sexy to shy in the blink of an eye. "Do I really look okay?" she asks uncertainly, glancing down at her dress as she runs a palm over the material. "This dress isn't too informal or anything?"

The little show of insecurity is kind of endearing but completely unnecessary. Teresa could put everyone here to shame with how stunning she looks. Sure, the dress isn't the fanciest one in the room, but on Teresa, the simple style is a perfect complement to her natural beauty. Still, she gets that Teresa wants to make a good impression on the people Santana works with every day, so Santana smiles reassuringly and tightens her arm around Teresa's waist.

"You look amazing. Everyone in this room is so fucking jealous of me right now," she promises, smirking. "Of course, they're more jealous of you, with the hot doctor on your arm," she brags, gesturing to her own sexy-as-hell, strapless, red dress and totally confident that Teresa is fully appreciating the way her boobs look in it.

Teresa laughs, shaking her head as she lifts a hand to give Santana's cheek a fond pat. "There's that ego I know and love."

And yeah—okay—Santana's stomach does this pleasant little dip at the word, even though Teresa hasn't come out and said it for real yet. It's still early days, after all, and maybe she's still a little gun-shy about Santana's past track record, but Santana is feeling like those words might come spilling out of one of them really soon. It might just be her.

"The point is, you're gorgeous," Santana tells her frankly, "we look hot together, and I'm proud to be here with you."

Teresa's smile turns soft at the declaration, and her blue eyes sparkle with happiness. "The feeling is very mutual."

"Well, obviously," Santana responds smugly—because she's absolutely  _not_  blushing under the warmth of Teresa's approving gaze. "I'm a catch."

Teresa shakes her head again, but it's purely affectionate. Santana tells herself it's because Teresa secretly agrees with her, which would be kind of convenient since Santana considers Teresa to be a damn fine catch too. She's already won over every single one of Santana's friends and both of her parents, who'd booked a flight to New York a few weeks ago with the express purpose of meeting the woman that their daughter had actually considered important enough to mention by name to Maribel Lopez during a random phone conversation. Teresa had had a little freak-out over it when Santana dropped the bomb that her parents were coming to check her out in the guise of an impromptu visit, but she'd still managed to thoroughly charm them before their trip was over.

"Do you see Quinn and Rachel anywhere?" Teresa asks, glancing around the room for their friends—yeah, Santana's friends are  _their_  friends now—who are supposedly already here somewhere since Rachel is on the list of performers for this shindig tonight.

"Knowing them, they're probably having their own party in the nearest bathroom," Santana responds with a shrug.

Teresa chuckles. "I'm being serious."

"So am I," Santana informs her with a roll of her eyes, well aware that her best friends have some freaky affinity for public bathrooms. "Don't worry. The Faborings will turn up eventually. In the meantime, let's go track down our table and get started on those hors d'oeuvres."

"Of course. We wouldn't want you to wither away from a lack of sustenance," Teresa quips impishly.

"Damn right," Santana affirms with a wicked grin, sliding her fingers down Teresa's bare arm until she can tuck them into the familiar warmth of her girlfriend's hand. "I'm gonna need the extra calories for later."

"Are you planning to dance the night away?" Teresa teases.

"First on our feet and then between the sheets," Santana answers unabashedly. She doesn't care if she does have to be up at five o'clock tomorrow morning; she has every intention of filling up the hours until then by enjoying Teresa both in and out of that dress.

"You're awfully confident there, tiger," Teresa drawls.

A pleasant tingle of heat zings through Santana's blood at the reappearance of her occasional pet name. She's not entirely sure why she likes it so much. The first time Teresa had used it had been as a gentle admonishment to Santana's overzealous seduction techniques with a laughing, ' _easy, tiger_ ,' while Teresa had been putting the brakes on their first make-out session. Now it just makes Santana feel like purring every time she hears it.

"Well, yeah. It's me. And I think I've proven I have the skills to back up my promises. Multiple times," Santana adds cockily.

She watches Teresa's tongue poke out to moisten her lips before admitting, "I can't really argue with that."

Santana does her best to ignore the way her body reacts to the sight of that tongue by challenging her girlfriend's assertion with a smirk. "That's a first."

Truth be told, she enjoys the playful arguments that Teresa is always more than willing to engage in with her. It keeps her sharp. Teresa seems to recognize that fact too, because pink lips curve into a knowing grin. "You'd get bored if I made it too easy for you."

"You know," Santana muses softly, taking a courageous breath, "I really don't think I'm gonna get bored with you."

Yeah, it's only been a few months, and she guesses anything is possible, but so far this thing with Teresa is only getting better—which is  _so_  not the norm for her. In the past, this was always around the time when Santana started looking to duck out of her extended arrangements.

Something warm and tender and almost dreamy flickers over Teresa's expression in the moment before she squeezes Santana's hand and leans in to connect their lips in an almost-but-not-quite chaste kiss, and it's enough to leave Santana feeling a little bit breathless.

When Teresa pulls back with a smile, Santana's eyes are drawn to her glistening mouth, and she has to fight the urge to taste it again. It's a good thing they'd chosen to wear the same shade of lipstick. "Come on," Teresa urges, still grinning, "let's go find our table."

Santana nods her agreement, tearing her eyes away from her girlfriend's mouth as they start moving. She's looking forward to snagging a seat and then snagging some booze and eats, but that doesn't stop her from taking her time while she struts through the room with her hand tucked into Teresa's.

Yeah. That's right. She's got a hot a lady to show off. She catches sight of more than one of her colleagues giving them an appreciative once-over as they pass by. She doesn't even care that their minds are probably in the gutter as long as they're suitably jealous.

They weave their way through the dozens of tables scattered around the ballroom at Cipriani Wall Street, on the lookout for table number six where she knows they're supposed to be sitting. Rachel had made sure they'd be seated at her table, along with Josie and Sarah, who'd snagged a pair of tickets to the hospital's annual charity event thanks to one of Josie's legal connections. Kurt and Harry had opted to spend their evening doing something a little less formal—probably each other.

It doesn't take very long for Santana to pick the familiar redhead out of the crowd, spotting her and Sarah at a table near the front of the stage. She should have figured the rising star of Rachel Berry (because the  _Fabray_  doesn't really play into professional events) would score them prime real estate tonight.

"Red and Michigan are over there," Santana announces, gesturing over to them.

"You and those nicknames," Teresa comments with a trace of mild exasperation even as she takes off in their direction, tugging Santana along behind her.

One of the brand new irritations in her life is the fact that Teresa and Sarah are, in fact, becoming friends—like, actual talk-on-the-phone-and-make-plans-to-meet-for-coffee friends. Santana isn't certain she likes that particular development much, but she doesn't exactly get a vote in the matter. Teresa's got some lady-boner for talking about boring artsy stuff that Santana can't quite satisfy but apparently Sarah (and Josie) can. Teresa has a few other friends to talk to about that crap too, but apparently she's digging the fresh perspective she's getting from her newest acquaintances.

They're barely at the table before Teresa is dropping her hand and sliding into the chair next to Sarah with a friendly smile. "Hey. This is one gorgeous ballroom, huh?" she directs to Sarah, briefly glancing up at the fancy gold and crystal chandelier hanging from the weirdly mausoleum-like ceiling above them.

Frankly, Santana thinks the place is a little on the gaudy side. She feels like someone dropped her into some wannabe Olympic temple or something, but she figures it's right up Michigan's alley. She's ridiculously predictable that way, so of course she's all over Teresa's comment like an eager puppy. "Absolutely. Finally getting to see the inside of this building is the only way Jo could convince me to come tonight."

Santana doesn't doubt it. The woman is still a wet-blanket when it comes to social situations, even if Josie has managed to loosen her up enough to be mostly tolerable fifty percent of the time.

"Well, it certainly didn't hurt my cause," Josie admits with a shrug of her ivory shoulders, grinning as her twinkling eyes dart to her fiancée, "but I had other ways of convincing her to come."

The instant blush that crawls over Sarah's cheeks is also ridiculously predictable, and Santana can't resist needling them with a lascivious, "Wanky." Watching Michigan do her best impersonation of a cherry is totally worth the slight pinch Teresa lands on her hip.

Josie merely rolls her eyes at Santana's comment, refusing to take the bait. "You both look gorgeous tonight," she tells them instead.

Teresa's modest, "Thank you," almost gets lost under Santana's brash, "Of course we do. We're the hottest bitches in this room." Three sets of unamused eyes aimed in her direction have Santana rolling hers. "But you're looking pretty good too," she allows, giving Josie and Sarah another quick onceover. She can only see their upper halves across the table, but Josie's strapless, cream dress shows off her even creamier shoulders—and other assets she's not gonna admit she's still noticing. Meanwhile, Sarah's modest black dress—well, it suits her enough to have Santana add a teasing, "Even you, Mich… _Sarah_ ," she amends quickly, glancing at Teresa with a smirk, proud that she'd caught herself.

Sarah sighs in resignation, shaking her head before glancing to Teresa. "I guess the training is coming along slowly."

Teresa and Josie both share a laugh at Santana's expense, and once again, Santana finds herself mildly impressed that Sarah actually grew a set sometime in the last six months. Teresa leans into her side with a cheerful smile, reaching up to pat her cheek affectionately. "I've found that she responds fairly well to a positive reward system."

Santana lets her lips curl into a wicked grin. "Awesome sex keeps me sweet."

"Now if only I could figure out how to keep you from announcing these things in public," Teresa laments playfully, giving Santana's cheek a final pat before pulling away. The smile on her lips assures Santana that she's not really bothered by the (pretty damned honest) boast.

"Like this even counts as public," Santana scoffs, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of their tablemates. "Our friends know how I roll."

"Sadly, we do," Josie teases with an easy smile. "But we've learned to accept what we cannot change."

"And it helps that we don't have to spend as much time with her as you do," Sarah adds, obviously feeling brave tonight.

"Actually,she gets more endearing the more time you spend with her," Teresa reveals with a tender expression aimed at Santana while she reaches for her hand under the table.

Santana is pretty sure she's actually blushing now, and her attempt at a cocky, "You know it," comes out sounding almost shy.  _Damn it!_

And Josie and Sarah  _did not_  just exchange some cutesy look of wonder at her expense!

"So, Santana," Josie interjects, taking pity on her, "who's manning the hospital tonight with half the staff here?" she asks jokingly.

"The suckers who got stuck on call," Santana snarks, happy to move the focus away from her sappy, traitorous _feelings_.

"And how is that not you?" Josie wonders.

"Hey, I put in my time with double shifts last week," Santana defends—and that had been one hellish surgical rotation too. She'd barely even  _seen_  Teresa, let alone gotten to enjoy some much needed tender loving care courtesy of her girlfriend's very talented fingers. "And I'm back on at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow morning," she grumbles peevishly. But for some reason, Doctor Asano, the chief of cardiothoracic surgery, had made sure the schedule got worked so she and one of the other residents looking to focus on the specialty could attend this thing. He'd invited them personally too, even offering up the tickets at a (very) small discount. He might actually like them or something.

"Ouch," Josie grimaces in empathy. "And I thought Sarah worked ridiculous hours."

"You're one to talk," Sarah counters dryly. "You work more twelve hour days than I do."

Josie smiles at that, shrugging. "Guilty as charged."

Their schedules aren't quite the same kind of crazy that Santana's can be, but she silently acknowledges that—yeah—they're both workaholics who spend way too much time at their respective offices. "Guess we can't all live la vie Bohème like some people," she comments, casting a pointed look in Teresa's direction. Her girlfriend gets to spend half her days painting and half her nights in a bar.

"Please," Teresa scoffs when she notices everyone's attention on her. "I need to work four nights a week until three in the morning just to afford a tiny taste of la vie Bohème in this city."

"Ooh. Did someone say  _La Vie Bohème_?" Rachel asks excitedly, practically appearing out of thin air to claim the chair next to Santana. How she'd managed to sneak up on them in the shimmery gold dress that she's (almost) wearing is a mystery to Santana.

Quinn follows right behind her wife in a flowing, green one-shoulder dress that makes her look like some kind of nature goddess. "That's not your cue to start singing, Rach," she teases with a grin as she slides into the last open chair between Rachel and Josie, setting the wine glass she's carrying down on the table beside the one Rachel had just put there.

"I second that," Sarah chimes in.

"Well, that's your loss," Rachel protests, though she's smiling when she says it. "It's a great song, and I make a wonderful Maureen."

"Please, I'm more Maureen than you," Santana argues, slightly offended that she even has to voice what should be obvious to everyone at this table. "You're totally Joanne." (She's not gonna admit that Rachel managed to pull off a decent enough Maureen during her duet with Mercedes back in high school.)

"Actually, I think Josie would be Joanne," Teresa points out amiably. "She's the lawyer."

"But I really can't sing," Josie protests in a clear attempt to remove herself from the friendly argument.

"Nonsense," Rachel dismisses easily. "You really only need a few lessons on correct technique from a skilled vocal coach such as myself, which I'd be happy to…why are you all shaking your heads like that?" she interrupts herself, glancing around the table with a frown when she notices that they've all been attempting to silently but emphatically communicate to Josie that she should politely decline Rachel's offer.

An apologetic smile curves Josie's lips. "I appreciate the offer, Rachel, but I think I'll stick to my guitar whenever I feel like expressing myself through music." And yeah—she's actually pretty good with that thing. Santana suspects that even stick-in-the-mud Sarah gets a little wet and wild when Josie straps on her guitar. (She's totally not thinking about anything else Josie might be strapping on because she's got her own lady to get wet and wild with these days.)

"That's probably a wise decision," Quinn muses, taking a sip of her—whatever that is in her glass.

Rachel pouts at her wife. "Et tu, Quinn?"

Quinn reaches over to take her hand with a gentle smile. "You can be a little…"

"Insane," Santana supplies helpfully. "Neurotic. Bossy."

" _Particular_ ," Quinn says tactfully, sending a glare in Santana's direction at the same time that Rachel does. It's almost creepy how in sync they are—especially when they turn their attention back to each other in tandem. "Not everyone is meant to be a professional singer, sweetheart," Quinn soothes her wife.

"Well, obviously," Rachel concedes, instantly mollified. "You can't all be as talented as I am."

Santana rolls her eyes at the familiar show of arrogance. At this point she almost finds it as endearing as Quinn so obviously does—god help her! "Where did you score the booze anyway?" she asks, changing the subject before Rachel decides to expound on any of her imagined superior skills.

"Oh, it's over there by the hors d'oeuvres table," Rachel answers with an indifferent wave toward the other side of the room. "We picked it up on the way back from the restroom."

Santana snorts, turning to her girlfriend with a triumphant smirk. "Told you that's where they were."

"Stop it," Teresa scolds quietly even as she attempts to smother her laughter.

"What was that?" Quinn asks suspiciously, that one eyebrow of hers inching up as she gazes between them.

Santana ignores her, gesturing to Rachel's glass instead. "I'm surprised you're getting your drink on before you have to go up there and sing, half pint. I mean, we all know you're a lightweight when it comes to alcohol." Santana's had some hilarious firsthand experience with that over the years, and even though this event isn't exactly the Tonys or anything, there's no way Rachel Berry Fabray would ever give any public performance less than her full two hundred percent—unless you count that awful rendition of "With You I Am Born Again" that she'd hammed up with Finnsufferable back in glee club just to throw the duets competition so Quinn could win. Huh? Apparently she was pretty gay for Fabray even then.

"I'm only indulging in one glass of champagne, Santana," Rachel defends huffily. "And in any case, I don't perform until after the welcoming speech. There's at least another forty minutes of cocktail hour until then."

"Forty minutes?" Santana repeats incredulously. And damn—that's champagne? "Well, hell, let's go get our drinks on before they pack up the good stuff," she prompts, scraping back her chair and standing with one hand outstretched to her girlfriend. "Resa?"

"I'm there for the champagne," she affirms, taking Santana's hand.

"That actually sounds like a good idea," Josie agrees, turning to her fiancée. "Care to check out the spread with me?"

"I'm game to see what they have," Sarah answers with a nod, standing along with Josie.

"You're all leaving?" Rachel questions forlornly. "But Quinn and I just sat down."

"Sorry," Josie offers as she takes Sarah's hand.

Santana aims a wicked grin at them. "We can't help it you two had to cross another bathroom off your secret list before you hauled your asses over here."

Quinn shoots her a familiar look of irritation. "We don't  _have_  a secret list, Santana."

Santana snickers. "Uh huh. Whatever you say, Fabgay. But you might want to fix your smudged lipstick while we're gone," she advises as she points to the corner of her own mouth in demonstration.

She has the pleasure of watching Quinn's eyes widen slightly before her head whips in her wife's direction. "Rachel?"

"Oh, it's fine," Rachel promises before gazing at Quinn thoughtfully. "Maybe just," she trails off, lifting a hand to gently brush her thumb along the corner of Quinn's lower lip.

Quinn's eyes widen even more. "Oh, my God. You could have told me," she growls, jerking away from Rachel's touch and fumbling for her purse because she's still a vain bitch who'll go straight for her compact.

Santana cackles, wiggling her fingers at them. "Later, you horndogs." She has a feeling she'd probably get that compact thrown right at her head if Quinn didn't need it to check her makeup, but she's not sticking around to test which impulse actually wins out, so she leads Teresa away from the table while Rachel attempts to assure Quinn that the smudge was barely noticeable.

Teresa leans into her side as they walk. "Okay, they weren't seriously making out in the bathroom, were they?" she checks uncertainly.

Santana laughs again. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Teresa joins in the laughter as they make their way over to far end of the ballroom where a long table filled with a variety of fancy-looking hors d'oeuvres stands flanked by two tables overflowing with glasses of champagne and sparkling wines. Each table is manned by waiters in pristine, white jackets who've been tasked with keeping the refreshments flowing—at least until the hospital mouthpieces get up there and start begging for money. Then again, they'll probably bring out even  _more_  alcohol at that point to loosen up those wallets and purses.

Santana is just about to say hello to the food table when she hears, "Doctor Lopez. I'm glad to see you could make it tonight."

The familiar, lightly accented voice tears her away from her immediate destination and has her standing up just a little straighter as she turns to face the chief of cardiothoracic surgery. "I'm glad I could too. Thank you again for the invitation, Doctor Asano," she's quick to say, hard-shifting back into the more professional persona she tries to maintain at the hospital. It doesn't always stick, of course, so most of her coworkers have gotten an occasional taste of her more colorful commentaries, including Doctor Asano, but she always makes her best attempt to keep her filter on in his presence.

"You're quite welcome," he returns with a nod before his curious gaze drifts over to Santana's left side, where Teresa is hovering a little uncertainly.

"Oh, yeah…this is my girlfriend, Teresa Rinaldi," Santana introduces, answering his silent question without an ounce of shame. She's never made a secret of her sexuality at the hospital, so just about everyone she works with knows she's a lesbian, and yeah—there are a few doctors and nurses who can be kind of dickish about it, but most of them are either pretty accepting or at least indifferent. Doctor Asano has always seemed kind of indifferent, but then he's not one to want to know much of anything about anyone's personal life. He's only seems to care about skill in the operating room, and Santana has that in spades. So Santana considers it a win when he smiles warmly at Teresa and holds out a hand to her in greeting.

"It's lovely to meet you, Ms. Rinaldi."

Teresa returns the smile, visibly relaxing as she accepts his hand and gives it a firm shake. "Likewise, sir. Santana has told me how much she admires you." Which yeah—that's kind of true, even though Santana didn't use those words exactly, but she guesses it sounds better Teresa's way.

Doctor Asano chuckles. "Well, that  _is_  nice to hear. I never can tell if this one is being entirely sincere or simply sucking up."

"I think I learned my lesson the first time I tried that," Santana admits wryly. The usual tricks she'd used to con her teachers and coaches and the bouncers at the clubs she frequented in college didn't impress him in the slightest, and he'd straight-up called her out on her bullshit and told her the only way to impress him would be to become a great surgeon. She thinks she's well on her way.

"Santana has mentioned you as well, Ms. Rinaldi, but I believe she's actually managed to understate your charms," Doctor Asano compliments kindly. "And I'm certain you must know that understatement is not her forte," he adds with a perfect poker-face.

Teresa suppresses a laugh but not the amused smile that results. "I do," she confirms, sparing an affectionate glance for Santana before thanking Doctor Asano for the compliment.

"If you can spare a few moments," he addresses to Santana, "I'd like to introduce you to one of our benefactors who has a keen interest in cardiothoracic surgery. You can suck up to her as much as you like."

Santana recognizes Doctor Asano's request as an opportunity to rub elbows with people who might someday help her get a fellowship or win a permanent staff position at the hospital once her residency finally comes to an end, so she easily decides, "I can do that." And she means both the meeting  _and_  the sucking up.

"You're welcome to join us as well," he offers Teresa, and it seems pretty genuine. Santana figures whatever benefactor he wants her to meet must consider herself to be an ally too.

Teresa glances at Santana again, as if to verify that it would really be okay to be introduced around to potentially important people as Santana's girlfriend, and Santana smiles in an attempt to silently convey that  _hell yes_  it would. But either it doesn't work or Teresa just wants an excuse to make a graceful exit from boring medical discussions, because she's turning back to Doctor Asano and saying, "Thank you, but I think I'll leave the skilled removal of donations from pocketbooks to the surgeons."

Doctor Asano chuckles again. "Beautiful and witty as well. I very much hope to see you again in the future."

Teresa smiles politely, nodding. "I'd like that too." Then she turns to Santana with a wink. "See you back at the table."

And so Santana gets dragged away to network while her girlfriend gets to indulge in the food and the booze. The benefactor, Louisa Franco, turns out to be a wealthy restaurateur of Spanish descent whose son was born with pulmonary valve stenosis—hence her interest in cardiothoracic surgery. Santana figures her own Mexican heritage is probably the reason for her introduction, but she can't really blame Doctor Asano for using all his available assets to squeeze out a few more dollars for the hospital wherever he can, and Santana actually finds herself enjoying the conversation with the woman. If it'd been a year ago, and Louisa was twenty years younger, she might have even tried her hand at a little flirting to see if the woman maybe swings both ways. Hell—who is she kidding? Louisa wouldn't have needed to be twenty years younger. Santana could totally go for a cougar if she was still single. But she's not, so she (mostly) behaves herself.

When she finally makes her way back over to the hors d'oeuvres, she grabs a plate—really, they could have splurged on the big ones instead of these dinky little dessert-sized plates—and piles it as high as she can with a little of everything, balancing it in one hand while she snags a glass of champagne before heading back to the table.

"Do you think you got enough food?" Teresa teases when she sits down.

Santana shrugs. "For the first trip, yeah." Though she's not sure she'll have time to make a second thanks to Doctor Asano. The plate in front of Teresa is much emptier, and Santana is going to guess it didn't have much more on it before she'd started sampling. Josie and Sarah seem to be sharing the same plate, and apparently Quinn and Rachel had been fine with just guzzling the champagne.

"You know they  _are_  serving dinner after my performance," Rachel reminds her, eyeing Santana's plate warily.

"So?"

"I'll never understand how you manage to stay so thin with all the food you pile away," Josie admits, sounding mildly impressed.

Honestly, Santana doesn't eat nearly as much as people seem to think she does. From the time she'd hit college to now, her meal schedule has been erratic at best and non-existent at worst. Some days she's been lucky to eat anything more than a bagel or a cup of yogurt, so she's not about to pass up real food whenever it's put in front of her. But instead of telling them that, she grins cockily and holds up a finger—not  _that_  finger. "One; I have fabulous genes, unlike Lucy Q over here." She hooks a thumb in Quinn's direction, grinning cheekily at her. "No offense."

Hazel eyes narrow on her dangerously. "Fuck you very much, Santana," Quinn responds cattily.

Santana's grin widens at the predictable response, and she nods, holding up a second finger. "And that's number two. Sex burns a ton of calories."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I should have known you were headed there."

"Hey, it's a fact. Look it up," Santana defends. "Sex is the best workout."

"It  _is_  technically considered cardio," Rachel agrees thoughtfully, "and it's certainly more enjoyable than thirty minutes on the elliptical."

"See," Santana crows, pointing at Rachel in victory—grateful for the assist. "The better the sex, the better the workout."

"Can we change the subject before she starts trying to give us pointers on how to maximize our  _workouts_?" Sarah asks the table at large.

"Yes, please," Quinn concurs.

"I don't know. I've got some great pointers to share," Santana boasts, winking at Teresa.

Teresa rolls her eyes, reaching over to snag a mini crabcake off Santana's plate. "Those really need to stay between  _us_ , tiger," she warns, pressing the crabcake against Santana's lips until she has no choice but to open her mouth and take the offered bite. And damn—that is a  _really_  good crabcake. "You just keep your mouth occupied with other things for a while," Teresa suggests, patting Santana's cheek again.

"Mmmhmm," Santana hums around her mouthful.

"That's one way to shut her up," Quinn notes with a smirk to everyone's amusement.

"And I don't think we want to hear about the others," Sarah adds.

There a general murmur of agreement—which, their loss—so Santana turns her attention to her food because if the rest of the hors d'oeuvres are as good as that crabcake then she's definitely gonna try to make it back for a second plate before the entertainment starts.

The subject does end up getting changed multiple times—from Rachel's recent workshop that she's hoping will get full funding to take to Broadway to the progress of Quinn's third book to the hotel construction that Sarah is overseeing. Santana even manages to sneak back for a small second helping of her favorite hors d'oeuvres and another glass of champagne before the hospital chair takes to the stage to give his introductory speech and initial pitch for funding so the hospital can expand its trauma services.

Rachel takes the stage about fifteen minutes after that for a three song set—all Broadway numbers because that's what the people expect from her. Her first song is "Somewhere" from  _West Side Story_ , a nod to her first leading role, and Santana gets the distinct impression that she's singing it to Quinn. She kind of thinks Quinn gets that impression too if the doofy smile on her face is anything to go by.

The second song, Rachel announces, is an original from her recent workshop that she's hoping will become a Broadway standard very soon—everyone applauds this, of course—and Santana figures the free advertising for her newest project is probably at least part of the reason she'd agreed to perform here tonight. The song—Santana thinks she said it was called "Blank Canvas"—is actually pretty good, and it kind of makes Santana want to experience it fully staged in the context of the show. She guesses that's probably the point, and she wonders how many of the wealthy donors here tonight might decide to make an impromptu investment in an original Broadway musical.

Rachel's final number is "Don't Rain on My Parade"(because of course it is) and it receives an even more enthusiastic reception than the version she'd belted on the fly back in high school—although that version will always impress Santana more just because Rachel had had zero rehearsals and next to no time to warm-up properly. That had been something to see, though Rachel does an even better job of working this audience now that she has the extra years of honing her performance skills. She really is kind of a fucking star now, and Santana is more than a little proud of her.

When Rachel eventually returns to the table, she's flushed and smiling from the high of the applause. Teresa and Josie stroke her ego with compliments (while Sarah just smiles and nods along to Josie's praise, no doubt out of sheer politeness since she's still not into the Broadway stuff), and Quinn kisses Rachel's cheek, looking like she really wants to stroke something other than Rachel's ego. Santana won't be surprised if they both disappear to the bathroom again sometime before the entrées are served.

Dozens of white-coated waiters run the maze of tables to serve the salads while the band plays instrumental versions of familiar Broadway and Big Band songs, and then they come around again to collect the empty plates and replace them with full ones while a sleek, feel-good video plays on the large screens strategically placed throughout the ballroom, complete with heart-tugging, firsthand stories about life-saving procedures performed at the hospital over the years. Santana mostly tunes it out for her own sanity—her job can be emotionally draining enough without her getting pulled back into it on her off-time—and focuses on the food, which is pretty freaking amazing. Whatever local chef donated his or her time to cater this party is a fucking godsend.

After dinner, the waiters spread out hundreds of sinfully sweet confections on those tables that once held the hors d'oeuvres and swap out the champagne for two different kinds of dessert wines while the guests have to sit through one more (blessedly short) give-us-your-money-please speech. And then they're set free to mingle, throw money at the fairly impressive silent auction items on display in the corner of the ballroom, or sample the desserts while some other Broadway dude that Santana has never seen before starts singing with the band. Rachel says his name is Mark something or other and he's a  _promising new talent_.

"Not as promising as I was, of course," she qualifies shamelessly.

Quinn pats her wife's thigh under the table. "As if anyone ever could be," she agrees with placating grin.

"I know you think you're humoring me, but we both know you're only speaking the absolute truth."

Quinn laughingly shakes her head. "Come on. I want to go check out the silent auction," she announces, rising from her chair.

Rachel's eyes narrow suspiciously. "You're only planning to  _look_ , right?" she asks warily as she slowly stands. "Because I think my performance qualifies as a more than adequate donation tonight."

"Wow," Santana breathes out in mock awe. "If only your monetary generosity was as boundless as your ego, the hospital could be fully funded for the next twenty years."

"Very funny, Santana," Rachel grumbles while Quinn rolls her eyes, laughing as she grabs Rachel's hand and tugs her away.

"I think I'm going to join them," Josie decides, pushing back her own chair to stand. "Are you interested?" she asks Sarah, holding out a hand in invitation.

Sarah slips her hand into Josie's with a soft smile, saying, "I'll keep you company. Don't worry. I know better than to even try to convince you not to bid on anything," she promises with an indulgent smile. "And I really need to make a stop at the ladies' room anyway."

"I should do that too," Teresa decides, tossing her napkin on the table as she glances at Santana. "I'm guessing I'll find you at the dessert table and not the auction."

Santana grins. "You do know me well."

Teresa laughs. "You really weren't kidding about those extra calories," she muses, eyes twinkling with merriment.

"I have a lot of appetites that need satisfying," Santana reminds her huskily.

A pink tongue darts out to moisten smiling lips before Teresa leans in for an all-too-brief kiss. "I'll be back, tiger," she promises in a purr. "Just don't overdose on sugar while I'm gone. I'm gonna need you fully conscious later on to show me some of those…intense workout techniques of yours."

And yeah—Santana seriously contemplates taking a page out of Quinn and Rachel's playbook by following her sexy girlfriend to the bathroom and seeing how creative they can be inside one of the stalls. But then she considers all the ladies who have probably been in there already tonight doing not-sexy things and decides to pursue the desserts instead.

Of course, she gets pulled into a conversation with one of her colleagues and her boyfriend while she's debating between the tiramisu and panna cotta (and pretending that she's not going to just take both with the excuse that she's dating an Italian girl so she has to sample all the ethnic cuisine) and ends up being away from the table longer than she'd anticipated.

When Teresa doesn't come looking for her, she figures her girlfriend had probably just followed Sarah and Josie to the auction table. She's not worried about Teresa placing any bids since the whole struggling artist thing is pretty close to the truth. It's the tips she makes at the bar that keep her head above water—and apparently, those tips can be a couple thousand every shift thanks to her killer body, sexy smile, and tendency to flirt with people she deems  _safe_. Santana's admittedly not super thrilled about that last one, but she doesn't have a whole lot of room to complain when Teresa knows all about her own overly-salacious nature.

It's when she's on her way back to the table, taking an outside path so she doesn't have to elbow her way through all the people loitering between the tables while she juggles her food and drink, that she sees Teresa standing on the outskirts of the crowd, talking to an attractive, dark-skinned woman that Santana doesn't recognize. Teresa's arms are crossed, and her entire posture seems a little defensive, but she's standing pretty close (like  _way too_  close) to the other woman, and Santana has the sense that there's a certain familiarity between them. Her eyes narrow on the woman, taking note of the expensive shoes and designer dress encasing not-unappealing curves, and her stomach clenches unpleasantly. She blindly sets her plate and glass down on the nearest flat surface, ignoring the guy trying to tell her she has the wrong table, and makes a beeline for her girlfriend.

It's not until she's practically on top of them that she's able to hear some of their exchange, and the other woman's husky, "I really have missed you, Teresa," ruffles every one of Santana's feathers.

"Careful. Someone might overhear you and get the wrong idea," Teresa warns lowly.

The woman nods jerkily, saying, "I suppose I deserve that."

Santana figures it's more than past time to crash their private party, so she takes those last steps into Teresa's personal space, finally catching her girlfriend's attention with a calculated smile. "There you are, Resa. Sorry I got sidetracked," she apologizes in her best innocent voice—which yeah, really isn't all that innocent—while she runs her palm over Teresa's shoulder in a move that's meant to be part soothing and part possessive. "I didn't mean to leave you alone for so long."

Teresa's arms immediately fall out of their defensive position, and Santana thinks she even looks a little relieved to see her. "It's okay," she reassures with a tight smile, probably hoping that Santana will accept it as a blanket statement to cover the tense conversation she'd barged in on.

Yeah—not happening. Santana turns her attention to the woman standing across from them. She's just as attractive up close as she had been from behind, though looking suddenly paler than her complexion should really permit and kind of tense like a cornered rabbit. Santana's lips curl into a predatory grin. "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met. Doctor Santana Lopez," she announces with a touch of well-deserved arrogance as she holds out a hand.

Santana is fairly sure she already knows who the woman is before she gets the confirmation of, "Olivia Jefferson," along with a very brief handshake. "Teresa and I were…just catching up," she explains weakly. "We're," she hesitates, brown eyes shifting to Teresa with something close to regret, "old friends."

"So I've heard," Santana mutters irritably, knowing the  _friends_  part is complete and utter bullshit.

Olivia Jefferson is Teresa's ex- _girlfriend_ —the one with the  _story_. And as it turns out, the story features a whole lot of Teresa getting fridged every time the closeted bitch got invited anywhere having to do with the investment firm she works for, any of her coworkers, or her clients—anywhere like  _this—_ until Teresa just hadn't been able to take living that way anymore.

The fact that Santana had torched her own closet years ago and scattered the ashes to the wind back in Lima is the biggest reason that Teresa had been so willing to give her a chance when they'd met up again. After living some weird half-life with this woman for nearly two years, Teresa had wanted someone out and proud and willing to be with her in public.

Santana is all of that, and Olivia's loss is most definitely her gain, so she's obviously not going to pass up the chance to rub it in just a little. She slips her arm around Teresa's waist, proudly informing her that, "Teresa and I are  _girlfriends_. You know, the  _gay_  kind," she qualifies, so there can't be any confusion.

She feels Teresa tense under her touch, hissing, "Santana," in a warning tone, but it's so worth it to see the obvious discomfort Olivia is feeling at the blunt confession.

"What? It's not like I'm ashamed to be with you or anything," Santana responds deliberately just to drive the point home.

Olivia visibly winces, shifting uneasily. "I'm sorry. I should probably get back to my table," she excuses in a clipped tone. Her judgmental eyes travel over Santana once more, and she forces an insincere smile. "It was…nice to meet you, Doctor Lopez," she grits out before her gaze moves back to Teresa with poorly concealed longing. "And it really was good to see you again, Teresa."

Teresa gives a short nod of acknowledgement. "Take care of yourself, Liv."

Santana's stomach clenches hard at Teresa's use of the affectionate nickname, and her arm around Teresa's waist tightens a little while she has to stand there and watch Olivia smile wistfully at her girlfriend before she finally turns to walk away.

"So that was the infamous Olivia," Santana comments once they're alone, trying for her standard flippancy despite the way her gut is still churning with a veritable smorgasbord of unpleasant emotions. "Gotta admit, I pictured her differently." Like—kind of frumpy in a mannish business suit with zero cleavage. That nice, safe image is blown all to hell now.

Teresa shakes off Santana's hold when she turns—irritation flashing in her eyes as she grabs Santana's hand and tugs her a few steps closer to the wall and away from the people around them. "What the hell was that?"

"Um…you're welcome."

Blue eyes narrow dangerously. "You know, some women might find the possessive girlfriend act kind of hot, but I'm not really one of them."

Wait? Are they fighting over this? Seriously? "Well, pardon me for rescuing you from what was clearly an awkward reunion," Santana defends snarkily. She fucking  _knows_ she wasn't imagining Teresa's defensive posture when she first walked over here.

"It was less awkward before you decided to  _rescue_  me," Teresa fires back.

The churning in Santana's stomach increases. "You  _do_  know I heard I tail end of your conversation, right? She said she  _misses_  you," she reminds her bitterly.

"She did," Teresa acknowledges, her expression softening noticeably when she points out, "but I didn't say it back, Santana."

"No, but that passive-aggressive bullshit of yours was pretty telling." Teresa is obviously not over being Olivia's dirty little secret, and Santana is a little worried about what other buried emotions their reunion might have stirred up.

Teresa looks like she wants to argue the point, but then she glances off to the side, worrying her lip for moment before she admits, "This isn't the first time Olivia has been to an event like this." A sad smile twists her lips. "But it is the the first time  _I've_ been to one. Olivia seemed shocked that some other woman would actually invite me to be her date to something that gets covered on the society page." And Santana suddenly remembers how awed Teresa had been when Santana had asked her to come—how many times she'd asked if Santana was sure she wanted her here. "So I guess her getting nostalgic over our less than perfect relationship rubbed me the wrong way," she explains, reaching out to run a comforting hand down Santana's arm. "It was just an old wound getting poked. That's all. There's no reason for you to be jealous."

"I'm not," Santana denies huffily, instantly caught by Teresa's knowing gaze. "Fine. I am," she confesses, hating the feeling as much now as she had when she'd been seventeen and watching Brittany fall all over Wheels. "Your ex is fucking hot for a buttoned-up banker. I mean, she's obviously got a stick up her ass stiffer than Quinn's, but I'd still bang her."

"Really? This is where you take this conversation?" Teresa asks incredulously.

Santana sighs. "I'm sorry, okay," she mutters, feeling a little physically pained by the apology. "Believe me, I don't like turning into a jealous bitch marking her territory any more than you do. It's just," she takes a shaky breath, wishing she could smother the vulnerability that's creeping out from the deep, dark cave where she keeps it hidden. "You loved her. You'd still be with her if she'd been willing to bust out of her closet for you. What if she's ready to do that now?"

A short, dubious huff slips past Teresa's lips. "She isn't."

"You don't know. She could be," Santana argues petulantly. The woman had apparently decided to approach Teresa in a very public place to reminisce about their past romance, so maybe she's not quite as gay-shy as she used to be. "And I just…"  _got you_ , she thinks sullenly, shaking her head and staring at the wall with a frown. It would be just her luck to finally fall for a woman she wants to keep around only to end up losing her to her stupid, boring ex.

Teresa regards her quietly for a moment before she takes a step closer and lifts a hand to gently cup Santana's cheek, drawing her gaze back to earnest, blue eyes. "She'd be too late," she vows tenderly. "I'm over her, Santana. If I had a single doubt left before tonight, I don't anymore. You're the only woman I want." The vow is sealed with a sweet kiss, and Santana lets herself melt into it with a growing sense of relief. It's not quite a declaration of love, but it feels warm and true and real. And it's not like Santana wants any mushy  _I love yous_  to happen right here and now anyway. That shit is for private.

When their lips part, Santana traces her fingers along Teresa's arm until they reach the hand still resting on her cheek, and she gently pulls it away so she can link their fingers together. "You know, I kinda feel the same way about you."

Teresa's lips curve beautifully. "That's good to know," she murmurs before her smile turns playful. "Since  _you_  probably have a dozen ex-lovers here waiting to corner you tonight."

"Har-dee-freaking-har," Santana drawls flatly. "But no." Then she grimaces slightly, thinking about the two nurses (and that one anesthesiologist) she'd bedded. "Not a dozen anyway," she insists, pretty certain there wouldn't be  _that many_  of her past conquests here at the same time.

"Well, I promise not to claw anyone's eyes out just for looking at you," Teresa teases, give Santana's hand a squeeze.

"Your ex was doing a little more than looking," Santana feels compelled to point out, "and I did try to be nice to her for, like, a minute there."

Teresa laughs. "More like fifteen seconds."

"Hey, that's a decent attempt for me. But whatever," Santana dismisses with a shrug. "I'll work on it," she promises more sincerely.

"So will I," Teresa echoes, and she must notice Santana's perplexed expression, because Teresa offers her a self-deprecating smile. "I'm not exactly immune to the jealousy, you know. I feel it too sometimes. I mean, you have  _a lot_  of names in the little black book of yours," she reminds Santana needlessly, sounding mildly more amused than upset about it. "I just tend to cover up my jealousy with humor."

"You're jealous a lot then," Santana quips, thinking of all the teasing about her past exploits that she's had to endure.

"Or I just happen to have an amazing sense of humor," Teresa corrects, giving a sharp tug on Santana's hand, "which I  _know_  you appreciate."

"Among other things," Santana agrees flirtatiously, letting her gaze slide over Teresa's body.

Teresa bites back a laugh and shakes her head. "I think you've made it pretty clear you appreciate  _that_."

"I appreciate the whole package," Santana corrects seriously, reaching up to stroke Teresa's cheek with her thumb before she steals another soft kiss. "Although you do have some really nice packaging," she murmurs against Teresa's lips.

Teresa chuckles, pulling back with dancing eyes. "Likewise, Doctor Lopez. Now come on, let's get back to mingling with the people we actually want to talk to," she suggests, tugging her into motion by their still joined hands.

They've only taken a few steps when Santana uses their connection to pull Teresa to a stop. "Actually, can we detour past the dessert table first? I kind of lost my plate."

"You  _lost_  it?" Teresa asks in bemusement.

"Better my desserts than my girlfriend," Santana mutters before she notices the mildly reproachful look aimed at her. "I know, I know. Possessive is a turnoff," she recites dutifully. "Like I said, I'll work on it."

Teresa nods. "We'll work on it  _together_. And I have to admit, your protective streak isn't entirely unappealing," she confesses with a small shrug. "You were right. I wasn't exactly enjoying my conversation with Olivia, so I was kind of glad when you came over…at least until you opened that mouth of yours," she adds with a wry smile.

"So I can rescue you from exes as long as I do it silently?" Santana checks, making sure she understands the rules.

"Or  _politely_ ," Teresa simplifies with a laugh.

"Silently it is then," Santana decides with a firm nod, making Teresa laugh again.

"You're impossible," she scolds playfully, tugging Santana back into motion—this time toward the dessert table.

"But you lo… _like_  me anyway," Santana quickly amends.

Teresa's expression turns dreamy as she gazes at Santana through shimmering eyes. "Yeah. I  _like_  you," she affirms, stressing the word with an enigmatic smile. "Kind of a lot."

Santana's heart does a happy little jig inside her chest, and she forgets all about sexy ex-girlfriends slinking around the ballroom (hopefully watching them and eating her heart out) as she slips an (absolutely not possessive) arm around her gorgeous girlfriend with pride. She wants everyone to know that she gets to take this beautiful, amazing woman home with her tonight and hopefully every night to come. You can't get any luckier than that.


	42. They Think We're Lovers Kept Under Covers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Tumblr ficlet set directly after the ficlet _To Cover Up_ and immediately preceding _Won't Spend Another Day Wondering_.

_They think we're lovers kept under covers_  
_I just ignore it, but they keep saying_  
_We laugh just a little too loud_  
_We stand just a little too close_  
_We stare just a little too long_  
_Maybe they're seeing something we don't._  
_~Let's Give Them Something To Talk About, Bonnie Raitt_

* * *

"Just tell Quinn to be more careful in the future."

Rachel's eyes grow wide as she sits in the makeup chair before her performance, and she chokes back a nervous laugh in response to Laura's (correct) assumption that Quinn is responsible for the purple bruises currently marring her neck. There's absolutely no way Rachel can blame them on a curling iron, and frankly, she doesn't want to. She's still floating on the cloud of bliss that had formed the moment her lips had touched Quinn's for the very first time. So maybe she and Quinn had gotten just a tad bit carried away in their efforts to make up for lost time with the kissing after that, but Rachel is proud to wear Quinn's marks on her skin.

Laura is not nearly as enamored with them.

Rachel nods meekly while her skin catches fire, trusting that Laura is talented enough to cover her blush right along with those hickeys, but even as Laura works her magic, Rachel wonders how the woman had so easily guessed that it was Quinn who'd given them to her.

It's true that Rachel has been preoccupied for the last several weeks with her newly realized feelings for Quinn and the uncertainty of what she would do about them, but she hadn't even told Kurt about any of it yet. She  _knows_  she didn't purposely tell Laura, but she does tend to chatter when she's in her chair, filling up the empty silence with conversation, and she desperately tries to recall if she'd ever let any mention of her feelings slip in Laura's presence until her mind is so preoccupied with it that she just has to ask, "How…how did you know it was Quinn?"

Laura pauses in her work, gazing down at Rachel with an incredulous expression. "You've mentioned that woman's name practically every day since we started rehearsals. I know what kind of shampoo she uses, her favorite restaurant, and so many other obscure facts about her, your relationship with her, and her relationships with other women that I really shouldn't ever have to know. You've been bitching for days about the woman from the deli who's  _not nearly good enough for Quinn_ ," she says, quoting the familiar lament back to Rachel before rolling her eyes. "And yesterday was Thursday. Who else would you have been with?"

Rachel's mouth falls open as she stares at Laura, and the heat of her blush intensifies. It's true that she did spend the better part of the last week complaining that the meat-touting trollop that Quinn had gone out with was completely wrong for her—and she was joyfully proven correct on that front—and she can recognize now that she has talked about Quinn in this chair fairly often. But who doesn't occasionally talk about their friends?

"Was it really that obvious?"

A raucous laugh erupts from Laura's mouth. "Oh honey, you might as well have had a neon sign over your head." Rachel frowns at that, crossing her arms huffily. It's an obvious hyperbole—otherwise  _someone_  else surely would have noticed and informed her of it. "Lucky for you," Laura continues, scooping out a healthy dollop of concealer, "it seems like Quinn has a thing for colorful signs."

Rachel's lips slowly curl up at the corners until she's smiling goofily because— _yeah_ , Quinn does.

_x_

She's still smiling—or smiling  _again_ —when the curtain closes on the evening's performance. Rachel practically skips off the stage, eager to see Quinn for their (very late) date. Really, they're only going for a light meal after Rachel changes—and then who knows?—but they simply couldn't wait to see one another again after finally declaring their mutual love. Rachel can't even care that Santana tagged along with Quinn to the show.

Her euphoric state is enough to earn a friendly bump on the shoulder from Jessica Foster as they make their way back to their dressing rooms. "Someone is having a really good day," she comments with a smirk. "You've been smiling like a cat in a creamery since you got here."

Rachel generally likes Jessica. She'd been the first person in the cast, other than Brian, to make an effort to befriend her. In fact, she'd been unabashedly welcoming and complimentary in her initial approach—something that doesn't often happen to Rachel when it comes other women, especially ones in the business. They typically tend to judge her appearance or find her personality lacking or hate her for her exceptional talent. Jessica hadn't done any of that, and the teasing that Rachel occasionally has to endure from her is of a much friendlier (if sometimes mildly inappropriate) variety.

So it only takes a few seconds before Rachel decides that her new romance with Quinn is simply too epic and awe-inspiring not to be shared, and there's no reason why Jessica shouldn't be the first in the company—well, after Laura, obviously—to hear the news.

"Something wonderful happened yesterday," Rachel gushes dreamily.

"Did your secret lover finally pop the question?" Jessica asks playfully.

"I don't have a secret lover," Rachel denies reflexively, wondering why Jessica keeps joking about one. "Or, well, I didn't," she corrects with a grin, "until yesterday."

She expects Jessica's eyes to spark with interest before she presses Rachel for the juicy details. The woman can tend to be a tad bit obsessed with sex at times—like Santana but less evil. She  _doesn't_ expect furrowed eyebrows, a concerned frown, and to be tugged out of the hall into the relative solitude of a doorway.

"Explain," Jessica demands sharply.

Confused with her reaction, Rachel's grin droops—but only slightly. "Well, you remember my…friend, Quinn," she prompts.

"How could I not?" Jessica mutters, still frowning mildly.

Rachel lets the comment go—after all, she has talked about Quinn rather often if Laura is to be believed—and instead focuses on the warm bubbles of pleasure in her belly at the thought of her girlfriend. Her girlfriend! Rachel's grin widens once again. "Yesterday, she and I entered into a beautiful new phase of our relationship."

"So…she popped the question?" Jessica repeats, confused. "Or  _you_  did?"

It's Rachel's turn to frown in confusion, wondering why Jessica would even ask that. "No. We kissed. And…and then we confessed our mutual heretofore unspoken love and became girlfriends. The non-platonic kind," she clarifies, just in case, because there still seems to be some traces of bewilderment lingering in Jessica's expression.

Green eyes widen. "You mean you weren't already?"

It's clear that she's genuinely surprised by this information. "You thought we were," Rachel realizes belatedly.

"Well, yeah," Jessica confirms. "I mean, you talk about her all the time, and you're always all over each other whenever she comes to see you. And you don't even bat an eyelash when I flirt with you. I just figured you were together and keeping it on the down low." She snickers then. "Though I did think your version of  _down low_  needed some work."

"You  _flirt_  with me?" Rachel asks in shock, her brain latching onto that piece of information in utter disbelief.

Jessica waves a dismissive hand through the air. "I flirt with every woman, and I sleep with the ones who flirt back."

Jessica is into women! Rachel can't believe she missed that.

"So you  _weren't_ dating Quinn before yesterday?" Jessica verifies.

Rachel drags in a deep, calming breath while her brain fully processes everything. First Laura and now Jessica. Just how blatantly and how long has she been advertising her growing feelings for Quinn Fabray? "I was…kind of slow on the uptake," she admits in mild embarrassment.

Jessica clicks her tongue, shaking her head regretfully. "Damn. I'd have absolutely taken a shot with Quinn if I'd known she was single for real."

"Oh, like hell you would have," Rachel growls instinctively, feeling the (now) familiar burn of jealousy slither through her blood at the thought of Quinn hooking up with some random woman—Jessica totally counts as random in this instance. Rachel straightens her back and stands to her full height as she stares down her friend. She really wishes Jessica didn't have a good three inches on her right now, but it doesn't stop her from jabbing her index finger under Jessica's perfect nose. "You just stay away from my girlfriend," she warns, possibly less playfully than she intends.

Jessica laughs at that, easily batting Rachel's hand away. "Please…like she'd even notice anyone else," she dismisses, completely unoffended. "The way  _she_  looks at  _you_ is half the reason I thought you were already dating."

A blush crawls up Rachel's neck at the observation, and she nods. Now that she understands exactly what she's seeing when Quinn looks at her, she realizes just how long it's been happening. "I couldn't see it for a long time," she confesses quietly. "You'd understand if you knew our history…"

A short, breathy laugh interrupts her. "I think I know enough of it. You do talk about her a lot."

Rachel sighs. "So I'm discovering."

Jessica's smile turns softer then, and she reaches out to take one of Rachel's hands, giving it a friendly (Rachel thinks) squeeze. "It's been pretty obvious that you two have something really special, Rachel, even if you weren't actually a couple yet. I'm happy you finally figured it out."

"So am I," Rachel agrees with a smile. "Really happy."

The smirk is back on Jessica's face. "I can tell. She must be one hell of a kisser."

Rachel's smile turns smug. "Oh, she is. But you will never, ever get a personal demonstration." No one but Rachel will be sampling Quinn's lips ever again if Rachel has anything to say about it.

Jessica laughs again, shrugging. "A girl can dream. In the meantime, I need to go scrub off this makeup and see who I can get into tonight."

"Oh," Rachel gasps in awareness. "I need to do that too. George will be bringing Quinn backstage any minute now."

"Careful. Those dressing room walls are thin," Jessica teases as they step out of the doorway and move toward the dressing rooms once again.

"We won't be doing  _that_ ," Rachel admonishes, feeling things other than her face heat at the thought, but it's still too soon for that, and it certainly won't be happening for the first time in her dressing room. "Especially if Santana comes with her," she grumbles.

Jessica's eyebrows arch in interest. "Santana? That's one of the friends from high school, right?"

"Hmm…yeah," Rachel answers distractedly, stopping in front of her dressing room. "She came with Quinn tonight to keep her company. If you'll excuse me, Jessica, I really do need to get changed." She doesn't want to keep Quinn waiting one moment longer than she absolutely needs to. She's already done more than enough of that in her lifetime.

"Of course," Jessica answers breezily, taking a step away. "I'll see you tomorrow, Rachel. Don't let your not-so-secret secret lover wear you out tonight," she advises with a wink.

"She's not my," Rachel begins, trailing off when she realizes that Quinn is, in fact, her not-so-secret secret lover, and that's what Jessica has been teasing her about all this time. "Yeah, yeah she is," she decides, grinning goofily once again.

She can't even care just how not secret her affection for Quinn has obviously been. It's been years in the making, and they'd come so far to get here. Rachel will be perfectly happy to let the whole world to know just how lucky she is to be in love with her very best friend.


	43. Hang A Shining Star Upon the Highest Bough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A fababy Christmas ficlet set after _One Sweet Angel Sleeping In My Arms_. Short and unbetaed and a battle against my writer's block.
> 
> Happy Holidays.

_Through the years we all will be together_  
_if the fates allow_  
_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_  
_and have yourself a merry little Christmas now._  
_~Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_

* * *

It's a different sort of Very Merry Berry Fabray Christmukkah Celebration Extravaganza this year—in a good way. The decorations have been scaled back by necessity, though the Christmas tree stands tall in the corner of their new living room with its twinkling lights and shining star while the menorah is still displayed on their mantle despite the candles having been extinguished five nights ago when Hanukkah had ended. The bedrooms are packed with a plethora of colorful packages that Rachel is certain will only grow when Judy eventually arrives, her dads drive down for the weekend, and Shelby and Beth stop by for their visit. The Hanukkah gifts certainly had seemed to double this year.

The reason for that is currently resting quietly in Rachel's arms, staring up at her mama through sleepy gray eyes. Rachel smiles tenderly as she gazes down at her daughter, wondering what color her eyes will end up being once they finally begin to change. She hopes they stay light—like Quinn's. Her own eyes trace over every smooth curve of Calliope's perfect little face for the millionth time, and her heart feels near to bursting with love. She can barely believe that this miraculous little life actually came from her and Quinn.

"You know, on this day last year, your mommy and I were just finding out that you were real," she whispers reverently, eyes misting over at the memory of the phone call that had confirmed Quinn's pregnancy. It had all still felt like something of a dream at the time, and Rachel had spent the entire rest of the day attached to her wife's side while a hurricane of emotions raged within her. It hadn't even come close to preparing her for the way she would feel the moment she'd first hold her daughter in her arms. "You're the very best Hanukkah or Christmas gift that I've ever been given."

Rachel knows that nothing else could possibly ever come close.

Calliope's tiny bow mouth curves into a delighted smile at the sound of her mother's voice, and Rachel grins in response. "I know you don't fully understand what that means yet, but you will," she promises, gently rocking Calliope in the cradle of her arms as she slowly paces the room.

"I'm going to teach you all of our traditions, like lighting the menorah and what it means…we've already started on that one, if you remember," she points out, stopping in front of the mantle as she thinks fondly of their Hanukkah celebration this year. She knows Calliope hadn't understood what they were celebrating or why, but she'd been here with them, and that's all that really matters. "Don't worry. We'll go over it all again next year," she assures her daughter. "And when you're a little older, we'll play dreidel, and I'll teach you to make latkes." Rachel pauses then, frowning slightly as she drops her voice lower. "Well, maybe Mommy will teach you that part," she admits sheepishly. "She makes the best latkes…and just wait until you try her sufganiyot. They're not exactly good for us, but we can splurge for the holidays," Rachel permits with a smile. "Her Christmas cookies are pretty hard to resist too. We're very lucky that we get to enjoy both in this family."

Rachel gently dances them closer to the Christmas tree and watches with delight as Calliope's eyes widen with awareness at the glittering lights. "You'll find out more about Christmas in a few days."

Rachel can't wait to see Calliope's reaction to all of her presents. She laughs quietly to herself, knowing that her daughter will probably be completely oblivious to everything but the loving attention of her family this year. It's Calliope's mothers who are most excited about the Christmas presents, especially Quinn. Despite the general exhaustion of caring for a newborn baby, Quinn had gone a little overboard with the holiday shopping and dragged Rachel right along with her. It would have been impossible for them to be anything but excited for their very first Christmukkah with their beautiful baby girl.

Thank goodness for online shopping and grandparents who enthusiastically agree to babysit.

"And we'll make new traditions too," Rachel murmurs lovingly. "You, me, and Mommy." She can already imagine the many holidays to come that they'll experience in brand new ways through the eyes of their daughter.

When a furry little body rubs against her leg, Rachel rolls her eyes and glances down with a laugh. "And Oliver too, of course." He looks up at her warily, eyeing the bundle in her arms before swishing his tail and disappearing under the tree to disturb the manger.

"He's starting to come around," Rachel whispers conspiratorially. He's been hiding out under the bed in the spare room for the most part since they'd brought the baby home, but he hadn't been able to resist the call of the Christmas tree.

"It's such a magical time of year," she muses, returning her gaze to her daughter, "especially with you here, my little shining star."

She begins to sway again, softly humming while she sends up silent prayers of gratitude for all the blessings in her life—the child in her arms being chief amongst them.

Calliope's eyes begin to droop just a little, though she stubbornly fights against the pull of sleep. Quinn would say she gets that from Rachel, and Rachel is usually too tired to argue with her. Their daughter is proving to have a very stubborn internal alarm clock that wakes them all up at ungodly hours.

Any chance of lulling Calliope into a little afternoon nap disappears the moment Rachel hears the door of Quinn's office open. Her daughter's gray eyes are instantly alert again, and she starts to fuss a little in Rachel's arms, squealing excitedly in anticipation of seeing her other mother.

She doesn't have to wait long.

It's only a moment before Quinn pads into the living room with a tired smile, wearing comfy track pants and a zip-up hoodie with her hair messily escaping from the small ponytail at the nape of her neck. She's beautiful, and Rachel thinks again how blessed she is to have won the heart of this amazing woman who agreed to marry her and become the mother of her child. When their eyes meet—when Quinn's eyes soften with adoration and her lips part with a sigh of happiness at the sight of Rachel with their daughter—Rachel is certain that Quinn feels the same way.

Calliope squeals again, and Rachel glances back down at her with a smile. "Someone is happy Mommy is done with boring work stuff."

Quinn chuckles, admitting that, "Mommy is happy about that too," as she closes the small distance to her family. She's been stuck in her office for the last three hours on a conference call with the screenwriters who've been working on the film adaptation of her  _Wishing Stone_ book series—undoubtedly yelling at them again about some of the changes they've been trying to make.

It's clear that all thoughts of work disappear the moment Quinn's gaze drops down to their daughter. Her entire face glows with happiness. "Hello, Sunshine," she coos, giggling when Calliope grunts happily and sends a big smile up at her mommy. "Have you been having fun with Mama?" she asks, gliding gentle fingers over a chubby cheek.

"Oh, she has," Rachel answers with confidence. "She had fun screaming for me to pick her up instead of taking a nap, and then she happily complained about being stuck with the bottle instead of Mommy," Quinn laughs again, rolling her eyes, "and now we are making exciting plans to have ourselves a merry little Christmas."

"Oh, are you?" Quinn challenges playfully as she slips an arm around Rachel's waist and cuddles into her side, bringing her other hand up along Rachel's forearm to help cradle their daughter. "And what exactly do these exciting plans entail?"

Rachel leans into her wife's body, sinking blissfully into a cocoon of all-encompassing love. "Being together," she murmurs simply. "Loving one another."

Quinn hums in contentment. "That's a good plan."

"We think so," Rachel confirms with a nod. "Don't we, Calliope?"

The only answer is a yawn as Calliope's eyes finally drift closed, seemingly satisfied now that she has both of her mothers exactly where she wants them.

"Looks like someone's maybe had a little too much fun today," Quinn whispers.

Rachel huffs quietly. "Of course she decides to settle down and nap  _now_."

"I could do with a nap too," Quinn admits softly, hot breath tickling against Rachel's ear. Rachel shivers at the sensation.

"You know the minute we put her down, she'll start fussing again," she laments, mournful because a nice adult  _nap_  with her wife sounds like heaven right now—both with and without the actual napping.

"Maybe her Mama should sing her a lullaby," Quinn suggests. "Maybe whatever you were humming when I came in here."

Rachel smiles indulgently. "That's what our daughter wants?" she questions knowingly.

"Absolutely," Quinn confirms, holding Rachel closer.

They both know Calliope doesn't care what Rachel sings. She'd be content to hear Rachel sing the text of  _War and Peace_  to her as long as she sings it sotto. This is what Quinn wants, and they both know Rachel won't deny her.

And really, singing is an integral part of the holiday traditions that Rachel intends to share with her daughter, so it's no sacrifice to let the words come softly in a slow melody—straight from her heart.

" _Have yourself a merry little Christmas._  
_Let your heart be light._  
_From now on your troubles will be out of sight..._ "

And there in the circle of her wife's arms with their baby daughter drifting into dreamland, Rachel's heart has never been so light.

It really is the very best Christmukkah ever.


End file.
